


Rule Over Me

by Hyperion327



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 07, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, In this house we do NOT fridge women, Jon Snow Knows Something, M/M, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Military Tactics, Rational Decision Making, This was demanded by reddit, Time Skips, Who am I to deny the people what they want?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperion327/pseuds/Hyperion327
Summary: All Jon can think of is the way they were so close in the cave with the glyphs. Daemon Targaryen is an intoxicating presence, and an infuriating one. His insistence on Jon bending the knee is maddening, as is his scent, like lemons and something unnameable but distinctly warm, and those captivating violet eyes as he stands nearly six inches taller than him make his skin too warm under his jerkin.A dispatch from a world where rather than Daenerys Targaryen, there is Daemon, and the ramifications therein.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 156





	1. How Can I Learn To Let You In?

**Author's Note:**

> So this was based on [this reddit post](https://www.reddit.com/r/DaenerysWinsTheThrone/comments/g1vfh5/why_is_daenerys_a_hotter_guy_than_me_not_mine/) and the subsequent comment chain. Title is from X Ambassadors’ _RULE. _Give me your honest thoughts.__

All Jon can think of is the way they were so close in the cave with the glyphs. Daemon Targaryen is an intoxicating presence, and an infuriating one. His insistence on Jon bending the knee is maddening, as is his scent, like lemons and something unnameable but distinctly _warm,_ and those captivating violet eyes as he stands nearly six inches taller than him make his skin too warm under his jerkin. 

That short cap of moonlight-colored hair that glows like a halo when the sun falls on it is another matter entirely, one that invades his thoughts at the most inopportune moments, such as now, when he is meant to be convincing the Dragon King to fight for the North. The two of them walk together towards the mouth of the old mine, ahead of Missandei and Davos, who are wrapped in their own discussion. 

“Do you know what _Kazzo_ means in Old Ghiscari, Jon Snow?” Daemon asks.

Jon shakes his head. “I’m ashamed to say I’ve never even heard of Old Ghiscari, Your Grace.” He answers.

“It means _‘Father’._ The slaves of Yunkai called me Father when I liberated them. More than any other, that title is the one I care most about.” The king says. “I’ve known slavery. My brother sold me to the only female khal in the entirety of the Dothraki Sea, with a khalasar made of nothing but women and their male concubines. I’ve known what it means to live under the thumb of a tyrant, I spent the first six and ten years of my life with Viserys.” 

“And now you’re the Father of Dragons.” He replies.

As they emerge from the dragonglass caves, the party is greeted by Varys and Tyrion, wearing twin looks of bitter disappointment upon their faces. At once, Daemon’s demeanor sours. 

“What is it?” He flatly demands. 

Tyrion swallows and addresses his king. “We took Casterly Rock.”

The king becomes somewhat more relaxed. “That’s very good to hear… isn’t it?”

**+**

“All is not lost, Your Grace!” Tyrion pleads as Daemon snarls in fury, stalking around the painted table after having just swept the pieces from it in his rage. 

“Just an entire kingdom, not to mention the _food for our army!”_ He explodes. “And that’s atop what happened to Ellaria Sand and the Dornish Fleet, while you sent Grey Worm on a wild chase for a keep with nothing left in it!” 

“Lady Olenna lives! She journeys here now, accompanied by her granddaughter!” The Hand of the King adds. 

The King pauses for a moment, before turning. “And thank the Gods she does, my lord.” He stalks over to the dwarf, towering over him, and plucks the brooch from his chest. “Lord Tyrion, you are relieved of your duties as Hand of the King. Lord Varys?” 

The eunuch perks up immediately. “Your Grace?”

“Dispatch a raven to Lady Olenna. Inform her that I have named her my new Hand.” He orders. 

“At once, Your Grace.” 

Tyrion stutters, clearly stunned, but Daemon speaks over him. “Your counsel is still welcome, Lord Tyrion. Valued, even, but four monumental failures is too costly to forgive. I imagine you’d like some time alone. Lord Varys, before you depart, I would be most appreciative if you would send me Jon Snow.” 

After having a few moments alone to calm the enraged dragon within, Daemon turns from where he leans against the railing of the balcony when Jon enters the chamber. “You wanted to see me, Your Grace?” 

“Yes. My now-former Hand has sent my finest men on a farce of a mission. I wonder if he has been giving me bad counsel this entire time. My enemies are his family, and the call of blood is powerful. Perhaps too powerful for him. Every bone in my body screams at me to ignore the clever plans and take my children to the Red Keep and burn Cersei Lannister in her castle. My allies have been taken from me while I’ve been sitting here on this fucking _island!”_

Jon sighs. “How can I help, then?” 

“What would you have me do? I’m at war, and I’m losing. What should I do?” He asks. 

The King in the North joins the Dragon King against the stone railing, looking out over the Blackwater Bay, where Rhaegal and Viserion orbit one another in the skies above the sea, their cries echoing loudly even from leagues away. _Such magnificent creatures,_ Jon thinks with true admiration.

“I never thought that dragons would exist again. No one did. The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen, build a world that’s different from the shit one they’ve always known.” He says, staring into those enchanting Targaryen eyes.

“But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities, you’re not different.” He cautions. “You’re just more of the same.

**+**

“What do you think of him?” Davos asks as they walk along the many patrol stairs surrounding the keep.

“Who?” Jon replies.

The old smuggler rolls his eyes. “I believe you know of _whom_ I speak.” 

“I think he has a good heart.” 

“A good heart? I’ve noticed you staring at his good heart.” 

The King in the North stops, staring at his informal Hand with shock, and perhaps a small bit of betrayal painting his features. “I’ve no clue what you’re referring to, Ser Davos.” He says, rather clipped in his response.

Davos rolls his eyes and chuckles. “I served Stannis Baratheon, the prickliest arsehole in Westeros, loved his greyscale-ridden daughter like she was my own, kept company with giants and wildlings. You think the fact that you have… shall we say _diverse_ preferences bothers me in the least?” 

“There’s no time for that. I saw the Night King, Davos, I looked into his eyes. How many men do we have in the North to fight him? Ten thousand, less?” He asks, diverting from any discussion of his _preferences._

“Fewer.” 

“What?”

Davos pays him no mind as they come up on the king’s maid leaning against one of the crenelations, looking out of the seas beyond the island’s shore. “Speaking of good hearts, Missandei of Naath.” 

“Ser Davos, Lord Snow.” She says, inclining her head towards the two men. 

“King Snow, isn’t it?” The old smuggler corrects her. “No, that doesn’t sound right. King Jon?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The aforementioned king interjects.

She turns to Jon, curiosity plain on her face. “Forgive me, but may I ask a question? Your name is Jon Snow, but your father’s name was Ned Stark?”

He nods, just a touch sullen in the tone of his voice as he answers. “I’m a bastard. My mother and father weren’t married.” 

“Is the custom different in Naath?” Davos queries. 

“We don’t have marriage in Naath, so the concept of a bastard doesn’t exist.” 

Intrigue crosses his face. “That sounds… liberating.” 

“Why did you leave your homeland?” Jon asks. 

“I was stolen away by slavers.”

“I’m sorry…” 

“If I may,” Davos says, “How did a slave girl come to advise Daemon Targaryen?” 

Missandei’s demeanor becomes notably brighter at that. “He bought me from my master and set me free.”

He makes an impressed noise. “That was good of him. And he did so without any… expectations in return?”

“If you’re asking if I warm His Grace’s bed, the answer is _no,_ and I certainly do not do so out of some sense of a debt owed.” She replies, slightly defensive. It’s clear that the insinuation has been made to her plenty of times before. “I’ve never known the king to be improper towards me, or any other woman. He is an honorable man, through and through.” 

“Please, excuse me, I meant no insult. You might understand my curiosity as to a young man and a young woman, especially ones as… well frankly, as beautiful as the two of you, keeping such close company.” He says.

She nods, and Davos continues. “Of course, you’re serving _him_ now, aren’t you?” 

“I serve my king because I want to serve my king.” Missandei primly replies. “Because I believe in him.”

“And if you wanted to sail home to Naath tomorrow?” Jon proposes.

“Then he would give me a ship and wish me good fortune.” 

He pauses for a moment. “You believe that?” 

“I know it.” she vows. “All of us who came with him from Essos, we believe in him. He’s not our king because he’s the son of some king we never knew, he’s the king we chose.” 

There’s a pregnant pause, before Davos turns to his king. “Will you forgive me if I switch sides?” 

The distant ringing of bells interrupts the conversation further, and the golden kraken on the sails of a ship that glides its way into the harbor of Dragonstone catches everyone’s eye. Jon speaks, now confused. “Is that a Greyjoy ship?”

**+**

_No one has ever been allowed to touch him since Doreah,_ Daemon thinks, awash in wonder as Jon reaches out to lay his trembling hand against Drogon’s snout. Stepping down from his largest son’s shoulder, he approaches the awestruck Northman while Drogon lifts off with a great roar, joining his brothers in the sky. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” 

“It wasn’t the word I was thinking of, but… but, yes, they are.” He says, quickly tacking the admission on as he sees the Dragon King’s face go hard. “Gorgeous beasts.”

“They’re not beasts to me. No matter how big they get, or how terrifying to everyone else,” Daemon answers, “They’re my children.” 

Jon nods, understanding the fierce protectiveness in the other man’s voice. It’s the same protectiveness he feels towards Ghost, who’s no doubt loping about Winterfell, chasing rabbits or begging Sansa for table scraps. “You weren’t gone long.” He remarks.

“No.” He replies. 

“And?”

“And I have fewer enemies than I did yesterday.” Daemon says, before noting the distaste on Jon’s face. “You’re not sure how you feel about that.”

The King in the North tilts his head in concession. “No, I’m not.” 

The two men take off walking, making their way back towards the keep. “How many men did you army kill taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?” He asks. 

“Thousands.” The other man admits.

“We both want to help people. We can only help them from a position of strength. Sometimes… strength is terrible.” He pauses, looking down to the shorter man and those obsidian eyes with their endless depths. “When you first came here, Ser Davos said you took a knife to the heart for you people.” 

Jon worries at his lip for a moment before nodding. “Aye. When I let the wildlings past the wall to escape the White Walkers, some of the men of the Watch mutinied against me. Lured me out and… and stabbed me six times. Killed me.” 

The Dragon King’s eyes go wide. “And yet, here you stand.” 

“I was brought back by… by terrible magic. A red witch returned me to life.” He says. “Oftentimes, I wish she hadn’t.” 

“I don’t.” Daemon says softly. “I’ve grown used to you, Jon Snow. I should hate to see you perish now.” 

**+**

Jorah Mormont, cured of greyscale, has rejoined his king’s counsel, and now stands in the painted room, joined by Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm, Theon, Olenna Tyrell, now sporting the pin of the Hand of the King, and her granddaughter Elinor, who apparently escaped the annihilation of her house, and then managed a daring midnight flight from the Red Keep, traveling quietly under the cover of night for weeks until she was able to reach Highgarden and the protection of her grandmother. 

Jon doesn’t pretend to understand the relationship between Jorah and Daemon. The disgraced Northman is old enough to be his father, and yet watches him with eyes that can only be described as covetous, while the king had thrown all propriety to the wind by tightly embracing the man when he was escorted before him by the Dothraki. Yet, something tells him that Jorah’s poorly-concealed affection is unrequited, and probably an acknowledged fact between the two of them. 

“So,” The king says, walking into the room trailed by his bloodriders, three women built broad as barns and with terrifying skill with their weapons, “Here we all are.” 

“Short dear Ellaria.” Ollena snarks, “That fool woman.” 

Daemon raises a brow. “Who gave us Dorne.”

“And lost it by her own stupidity. She should have known better than to sail that close to the Storm Coast.” She retorts. “Gods know we’d have been here days ago had it not been for the fact that we had to go halfway to bloody Essos to avoid Euron’s fleet.” 

“We need to discuss our next steps. Lady Olenna brought with her the Redwyne fleet and four thousand men of the Arbor, which adds to our forces. I was able to recover the food stores taken in the sack of Highgarden, and we face a war on two fronts.” He continues. 

Jon raises his hand, and Daemon pauses, allowing him to speak. “The threat beyond the Wall must take precedence, Your Grace. It matters not whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne if we fail to stop the Night King.” 

“It pains me to say it,” Olenna says, “But I agree with the King in the North. Had you not taken me to that cave, I would not believe it, but the Children’s drawings are clear. What I disagree with is the insistence that we dispatch this Night King ahead of Cersei. She must be dead before the Wall falls, however it is that it shall do that.” 

“May I speak, Your Grace?” Tyrion asks, clearly quite humbled by the experience of being stripped of his premiership. The king nods, and he continues. “I believe that the best way to deal with Cersei is to call a truce. If we can convince her of the reality of the threat, she may at least sit out the fight against these creatures, perhaps even join it.” 

The Hand of the King scoffs. “Lord Tyrion, your mewling wretch of a sister will do nothing of the sort. You suffer from the same failure I did, a failure of imagination. I see now, there is no limit to her madness, no depth she will not sink to. If you truly intend to fight these monsters of ice, then you must dispatch her without hesitation. The same for Jaime.”

“My brother-”

“Is the most loyal soldier of our enemy.” Daemon interrupts. “He charged me on the battlefield, Tyrion. He was fully prepared to kill me, and had it not been for Drogon, he would have. He has made his decision, and you must make yours. If you do not wish to prosecute this war further, I will release you back to Casterly Rock. We still maintain control of the keep, and now can supply it with staff and food for you.” 

The dwarf of the rock looks torn, but finally nods. “Jaime must die.” He says, clearly aggrieved. 

“There is another matter,” The king declares. “Lord Snow, do you know where the Night King amasses his army?” 

“Aye, Your Grace,” Jon confirms.

“Would you join me on Drogon so that I might witness it? We needn’t land, and can remain far out of their reach above.” He asks. 

For a moment, he appears torn, but finally, the Northman nods. “I’ll take you north to see them. I warn you, however, that they will haunt your nightmares for the rest of your days.” 

Daemon gives a wry smirk. “They will simply be another addition to the menagerie.” 

**+**

The flight to the North is long and bitter cold, with the wind rushing through their ears too loudly to permit conversation, and more than once, they are forced to fly through a cloud, leaving them both dampened and cold. That said, the experience of riding a dragon is utterly incomparable. It is as if, for the first time in his life, Jon is truly living. 

What is Cersei Lannister to this? What candle do Littlefinger’s machinations and Sansa’s begrudging deference to him hold compared to owning the skies? Then there is the other added benefit, the fact that he has had his arms snaked around Daemon Targaryen’s waist for almost the entirety of their flight. 

He had been cursory and polite at first, clinging to one of Drogon’s horns, but after a particularly sharp bank had nearly thrown him off , Daemon brought them down low enough to speak, instructing the shorter man to hold tight to him, and who was Jon to refuse such an offer? If both of them were left red-cheeked by the closeness of it, that was certainly the cold, and nothing else. 

They departed Dragonstone with the dawn, and now, as the sun reaches its peak in the sky, the Wall comes into sight, stretching westward to the horizon, while the Shivering Sea pounds furiously against it where it meets the ocean at Eastwatch. Daemon directs Drogon down low, until finally, the great dragon clamps to the top of the Wall, with just his body nearly as wide as the Wall is thick, forget his wings. 

“I would see the border of my kingdom, Jon Snow. Would you honor me by explaining it?” Daemon asks, sliding down Drogon’s shoulder with practiced ease, and snickering at Jon’s gracelessness at the same task. 

“Laugh it up, Your Grace, by all means.” Jon snarks. “I bet you were quite the sight the first time you had to get off of him.”

He laughs, a bright, open sound that makes Jon’s heart beat faster. “You’ll never know. Now, tell me of this Wall.”

“Seven hundred feet high, three hundred miles long. You and I stand at Eastwatch-by-the-sea, the eastern edge. The western edge is at Westwatch-by-the-bridge, though it’s abandoned, and the westernmost castle garrisoned is the Shadow Tower. Castle Black sits at the center of the Wall. To the north of us is the Haunted Forest. The Night King’s army is located in Storrold’s Point near Hardhome, the only major wildling settlement. I was there when it fell.” He says. 

“I’m sorry.” He replies. “That must’ve been awful.” 

The other man nods. “Aye, it was.” 

Daemon looks out over the wintry landscape, clearly awestruck by the expansive vista before him, and Jon, rather jaded to the sight of the True North, instead watches the Dragon King. The very ends of his short silver are beginning to curl as they grow out, and his dusky purple cape ripples in the wind atop the Wall.

“A question, Your Grace.”

The king turns, a soft, mysterious sort of smile on his face. “You can call me Daemon, when it’s us.”

“A question… Daemon.”

“Yes, Jon?”

“You’re a… a khal of the Dothraki, correct?”

Daemon shakes his head. “I am _the_ Khal of Khals. I have done what no man ever could, and unified the whole of the Dothraki.” 

“Apologies. But, if you’re the Khal of Khals, why do you wear your hair short?” He asks. 

“As I said, I was sold to a khalasar entirely of women. Droga, my wife, saw the men who would prize their absurdly long braids as vain. She and her bloodriders were supposed to be part of the _dosh khaleen,_ the wives of dead khals who were sequestered in Vaes Dothrak when they became widows. Since cutting the hair is a sign of shame among Dothraki men, and Droga’s entire khalasar was seen as a shame on the Dothraki, all the women kept their hair short, and they forced their male concubines to do the same. My hair was once as long as yours, but I was made to shear it. I keep it that way as a reminder.” He explains.

Jon nods in understanding. “A reminder of what?” 

“Of my greatest failure.” The king says. “I will share with you an uncomfortable truth, Jon, one that you may not enjoy. I do not…”

“You don’t what?”

“I’m not… _inclined_ towards a woman’s company.” He admits, blushing furiously in a way that has nothing to do with the cold of the North. “I lay with Droga out of a husband’s duty, but when she finally became with child, I was honest and told her the truth.”

The King in the North is stunned, even _elated_ by the revelation of the fact that Daemon shares his peculiar taste in companionship, but the other man continues to speak. “She was more understanding than I expected. I had given her a child, so I was free of any such expectations. After Viserys died, she swore she would claim the Iron Throne for me and our child. Droga became my best friend.” 

“What happened?” Jon asks, sensing the story is about to turn south. 

“Mere days before she was due to give birth, we met another khalasar, one which was particularly hostile towards us. The khal challenged Droga to combat, and she _had_ to accept. She bested him, but was wounded. The wound became infected, and she was close to death. I implored a witch to save her life, and she did, but at great cost.” 

He swallows thickly, knowing immediately the cost. “Your child.”

“Yes,” Daemon says, “And though Droga lived, she would never wake again. I smothered her to end her suffering, and built a great pyre for her and our son, my little Rhaego. I lashed that spiteful hag to the pyre, and she cursed me. I will never again quicken any woman’s womb. I am the last Targaryen, Jon.” 

“Respectfully, Daemon,” He replies. “Has it occurred to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information? If you aren’t exactly interested in women, why would you ever be in a position to impregnate one?”

He gives a wry little laugh, and sighs. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I will have to marry once the Seven Kingdoms are mine. The question is, who can I find who makes a suitable bride for a king who does not desire her?” 

There’s a flicker of an idea in Jon’s head, but surely… no, it couldn’t happen. Could it? Before he can even properly formulate a response, Drogon makes an impatient chuffing noise, and Daemon laughs, walking over to caress the great skull of the beast, crooning in High Valyrian to him.

“I think someone’s getting cold.” He says. 

Jon smiles, locking eyes with the dragon. “You’re not the only one, lad. Come on then, we came here to see that icy fucker. Let’s show him his doom.” 

Despite the levity of his comments, by the time they’re back in the air, flying over the wildling territory, both men have a decided tenseness to them, a sense of dreadful anticipation building that Drogon clearly picks up upon, as even he feels wired and cautious in his movements. Another hour passes, and then, along the shores of a great frozen lake, it’s there. 

Daemon’s breath hitches as he takes in the ungodly sight of the Army of the Dead. It moves like a single organism, undulating in great waves, stretching around the whole of the body of water. The Night King’s lieutenants, mounted on their frozen destriers, can be picked up as flashes of ice blue in a sea of rotting grey-brown. 

_“Fucking hells…”_ The Dragon King exclaims. 

They orbit high above the mass of dead men a few times, before suddenly, Daemon barks in Valyrian, and they are hurtling downwards. “What in the seven hells are you doing?!” Jon demands. 

“Destroying our enemies!” He replies. _“Dracarys!”_

At once, a great gout of flame escapes from Drogon’s mouth, and hundreds of wights go up in flame, their unnatural screeches mixing with the scent of roasting rotten flesh, like the toasts of the damned at a feast in hell. Then, there is another sound, a whistling, before Drogon cuts off his flame with an agonized scream, and looking over, Jon spots the sudden formation of a small but bloody, ragged hole in his right wing that certainly wasn’t there a moment earlier. 

“Daemon!” He cries. “We have to go!”

The other man nods frantically. “I know, I know! _Soves!”_

The whistling sound appears again, and Jon turns, and there he is, the Night King himself. “It’s him! He’s lobbing bloody _lances_ at us!”

The second lance misses its mark, shooting over both of their heads, and as they tear southwards, for a moment, they believe they are safe. However, a third lance comes flying, one that forces Daemon to bank hard to avoid, lest it embed itself in Drogon’s chest, and it works, at least, he thinks it does, until Jon lets out an unholy noise, and when the king turns around, it’s to the sight of the other man using one hand to clutch his right side, and clinging to him desperately with the other. 

_“Jon!”_ He screams. 

**+**

“Hold on, Jon, we’re nearly there.” Daemon says for the umpteenth time, though this time, it’s true. The Wall has at last appeared on the horizon, and with it, hope for Jon’s life. In the time it’s taken them to fly there, the King in the North’s grip has grown less and less tight to his chest, his answers softer and more delirious. 

_He’s bleeding out,_ He thinks to himself, _You just_ had _to try and dispatch some of those godsdamned things and you might have gotten him killed for it._

The Dragon King pushes such thoughts from his head and focuses on the goal ahead. They’re only minutes from Eastwatch, only minutes from a maester for Jon. He urges Drogon along, begs him to fly faster, even as he is also wounded. Those last few minutes seem to last forever, until, _finally,_ they come to a stop in the courtyard of Eastwatch-by-the-sea, landing with incredible noise as the exhausted, wounded dragon lets himself fall flat into the snow, grateful just to be able to rest. 

At once, Daemon is shouldering Jon, easing him down Drogon’s side and crying out for a maester. A massive, red-haired man appears from the castle’s doors, dressed in furs and leathers, and exclaiming in incredulous, joyous shock. “Fucking Gods, I’ve never seen anything so fucking huge in my- _King Crow?!”_ He cries, his wonder leaving as soon as he catches the sight of Jon, pale and bloodied.

Jon’s face lifts up from Daemon’s shoulder, and he gives a loopy grin, giggling lightly. _“Heeey!_ Tormund!” He slurs. 

“He’s hurt, he needs a maester!” The Dragon King yells. 

“This way!” The man, Tormund, says, sprinting over to take Jon’s other side, easing him through the doors and towards a chamber on the lower level. “You there, crow healer, help him!” He barks to the maester, a harried-looking old man who at once becomes steady as steel when he sees the patient before him. 

“Get his shirts off, I need to see what we’re working with here.” He orders. 

At once, Daemon and Tormund comply, and the Targaryen gasps aloud when he catches sight of Jon’s scars for the first time. When Jon had told him what had happened, he had believed him, but to actually _see_ the scars is another thing entirely, and it stirs the dragon within him. _Those traitors are lucky that Jon dispatched them already, or I’d turn to them ash and relish every second of it._ He thinks. 

**+**

The interior of the keep is kept impressively warm for such a desolate place, and Daemon is grateful for the massive fire burning in the main hearth that he sits by, his fur-lined cloak having been taken to be laundered, as Jon had bled a great deal onto it. After a period of time, Tormund appears, holding a flagon of some drink in his hand and sitting across from him. 

“We haven’t met.” He says. “Sure as shit haven’t met anyone who rides a fucking _dragon_ either.” 

Daemon gives a small smile. “You’re one of a privileged few who have. How do you know Jon?”

“Oh, King Crow and I go _way_ back. I remember when he was a green little shit who didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground. He brought my people south of the Wall, saved us all from that frozen fucker.” 

“He did this to him. He wounded Drogon, as well.” He replies. “It’s my fault.” 

“How so?”

“I had to see it for myself. I believed him, but I needed to see it. And when I did I just… something overcame me. I knew I needed to destroy them, so I took Drogon down, and he started burning them by the hundreds.” He explains. “The Night King threw… something, I don’t know, some kind of lance. One hit my son’s wing, another grazed Jon, and it’s my fault. I should’ve seen them and left, not like I won’t have the chance to kill plenty of them when they come for us.”

“Your _son?”_ Tormund asks. “The dragon is your son?”

Daemon nods. “My dragons are my children. Not literally, mind you, but I was there when they hatched, and I have raised them all their lives.” 

“Who the hell are you, anyway, flying around with King Crow on your dragon?”

“My name is Daemon Targaryen. I’m the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.” He declares, just an edge of pride in his voice.

The wildling rolls his eyes. “Gods, every other southerner I meet says he’s king of this, that, or the other. I’m starting to think you lot aren’t a bunch of kneelers after all, you all just want someone to kneel before you.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He replies. “But it was my family who built the Seven Kingdoms, and I intend to take them back.”

“Prettiest king I ever met, I’ll grant you that. Including the eejit on the healer’s bed over there. They call me Giantsbane.” He says. “Ten years old, I killed a giant and crawled into his wife’s bed, and suckled at her teat for three months. I say that’s more interesting than somebody hatching dragons.” 

The king gives a startled laugh. “Well, Tormund Giantsbane, do you want to know how I hatched my sons? I laid their eggs on a pyre, which I had a witch tied to, and while it burned, I walked into the flames. When I emerged, my children clung to me like their father, and so I was.” 

“Fireproof? Bullshit.” Tormund challenges. 

He rolls his eyes and then pushes the sleeve of his shirt up before sticking his entire arm into the fire. At once, the wildling’s eyes go as wide as the moon. “Bullshit, eh?” 

“How in the fuck…?”

 _“Ānogar hen zaldrīzes._ Blood of the dragon.” Daemon answers. “It almost feels like a lover’s caress, you know.” 

“You telling me you fuck the fire? Is that what’s happening here? Cause if you do, you win, hands down.” He says, still clearly shocked. 

“I do not fuck fire, rest assured.” 

“Well, then, I guess I win, seeing as I once fucked a she-bear. Called her Shella, and to this day, she was the best fuck I’ve ever had.” 

The king is spared from trying to formulate a response to that by the entrance of the maester, whose name he was told is Molin. “Your Grace,” The maester says, sounding quite timid, “I’ve finished with Lord Commander Snow, and he is in the guest chambers upstairs. There is also the matter of your dragon.”

“What of him?” Daemon asks, now worried. 

“I did have a chance to observe the wound. It must be no more than eight or nine inches across, but I do not have a patch large enough to secure to his wing, and if the stories of the strength of a dragon’s skin are true, I doubt I could stitch the wing, nor would he permit me.” Molin says. 

The king nods. “I doubt he’d even permit _me_ to do such a thing.”

“Indeed. I do, however, possess a large store of firemilk, and could use some to clean his wound, to keep it from getting infected.” He offers. “I daren’t approach the beast without your presence, and blessing, of course.” He hastily adds. 

**+**

Outside, the whole castle has come out to witness the sight of Drogon sitting in their courtyard, casting suspicious stares at everyone, though he immediately relaxes at the sight of his father, who approaches, stroking along his snout and pressing a kiss to it. 

_“Hello, my darling boy,”_ He says in Valyrian, _“I need you to stay still, and not burn the healer. He’s going to treat your wound, but it will hurt.”_

At that, the dragon gives a low growl, to which Daemon scowls, and says something else before turning to Maester Molin, who clutches a large rag doused in firemilk. “You may approach him.” 

The man takes terrified, shuffling steps towards where Drogon has spread his wounded wing. The injury is located near the center of the appendage, and Molin stops, looking to the king. “Your Grace? Which way would be best to approach from?” 

“From the front. He doesn’t like it when someone comes up behind him. You shan’t tear his wing, I promise you.” He calls, still stroking at Drogon’s skull.

Very tenuously, the maester crawls over the top of the wing, and eases his way down the elastic flesh of the limb, all the while both awestruck and terrified at the heat and sheer power the muscle beneath him holds. After a few moments, he reaches the injury, which has luckily stopped bleeding.

“I’m going to apply the firemilk!” He yells, his voice near-screeching from terror. 

_“Brace, love.”_ Daemon instructs. 

When the rag is put to flesh, Drogon gives a great snarl, and his tail whips furiously, slamming into a small tower and gouging a hole in the structure, but he does not strike out, nor does he whip the maester from his wing. It takes only a few seconds and then Molin is furiously retreating, while Daemon praises his son with loving words in their mother tongue. 

When Drogon curls protectively in on his wounded wing, the king turns to the maester, who is still trembling. “Congratulations, Maester Molin. You are the first man since the Dance to tend a wounded dragon.” He says, clapping the man on his shoulder.

“Indeed, Your Grace. If you will excuse me, I must go sit for a bit.”

**+**

Late in the evening, Daemon finally makes his way into the room Jon’s been given, and sits on the edge of his bed, just watching the man sleep, and feeling nothing but disgust with himself for making the stupid choice that left him wounded. After a few moments, Jon’s eyes flutter open, and they lock onto the Targaryen king’s, and it’s all Daemon can do not to weep with relief.

“I’m sorry,” He says, “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back, I wish we’d never gone.” 

Jon shakes his head, reaching for Daemon’s hand. “I don’t. If we hadn’t gone, you wouldn’t have seen. You have to see it to know.” 

“Now I know.” He bleakly replies, before his eyes harden in that defiant way of his. “We are going to destroy the Night King and his army, and we’ll do it together. You have my word.”

The Northman swallows, understanding the commitment that the other man has just made. “Thank you, Dae.”

 _“‘Dae?’_ Who was the last person who called me that?” He wonders, chuckling blearily, “I’m not sure, was it my brother? Not the company you want to keep.”

“Alright,” Jon concedes, “Not Dae. How about _‘my king’?”_ Daemon is clearly shocked by the offer, and he keeps going, “I’d, uh, bend the knee, but…”

He furrows his brow. “What about those who swore allegiance to you?”

“They’ll all come to see you for what you are.” He promises. 

His voice trembling, Daemon takes Jon’s hand once again. “I hope I deserve it.”

“You do.”

**+**

They take time at Eastwatch, time for Jon and Drogon to heal, and for Daemon to fully absorb what he witnessed beyond the Wall. The king dispatches a raven to Dragonstone, affirming the existence of the dead. On the fourth day, one comes back for them, addressed in Lady Olenna’s slanted, curling handwriting. 

_You’ve seen the horrors to the north, and still, a horror sits at your door. This reaffirms the need that we deal with Cersei first, that we might focus the efforts of the continent on this great threat. We will discuss strategy upon your return._

Upon seeing the missive, Jon, with bandages still wrapped around his waist, rises from the bed, and begins to dress himself. 

“What are you doing?” Daemon demands, grasping the man’s shoulder to keep him from moving. 

“We need to go. Olenna’s right, Cersei must be dealt with.” He insists. “I can handle a flight to Dragonstone.” 

The king shakes his head. “You’re still hurt.” 

“I was grazed by an ice lance flying faster than a dragon, I am going to be hurt for some time. Every second spent waiting here for me to recover is a second the Night King has to march on the Wall, and a second Cersei has to fortify her position in the Crownlands.” Jon says. “Daemon, please. We _must_ go.” 

He debates with himself for a moment before biting his lip and nodding. “You’re right. But if you feel any bleeding, or any more weakness, if you feel that _anything_ is wrong, we’ll land immediately and seek a maester.” 

“Aye, that’s fair.” He says. 

They bid the men of Eastwatch-by-the-sea goodbye, and load up on Drogon, who, despite still having hole in his wing, is clearly eager to take flight once more. Without the sense of deep foreboding that awaited them on their journey on the way up, they’re able to at least marginally enjoy the flight south, and Jon doesn’t hesitate to rest his head against Daemon’s back. After all, he’s still wounded, and needs all the support he can get. 

His excuse to be close to Daemon is gone all too soon as the air becomes warm and Dragonstone rises from the horizon. In the distance, Rhaegal and Viserion screech in delight at the return of their brother and father, and Drogon seems to find one last burst of speed in him to reach his siblings all the faster. 

When they dismount the dragon, a landing party awaits them, led by Olenna and Davos, flanked by Qhona, Daemon’s main bloodrider, Missandei, and Grey Worm. “Your Grace.” Olenna intones, bowing her head to her king. 

“Lady Olenna.” Daemon replies. “Missandei, see Lord Snow to his rooms, please, and fetch the maester to check his wounds.”

“At once, Your Grace.” The Naathi says, placing a hand on Jon’s back and easing him up the steps to the keep while the rest of the party walks along the grassy field outside the embattlements. 

“Have you had time to reach a decision regarding Cersei, my king?” Olenna asks, taking his offered arm. 

He nods. “I have. You are correct, we must tear her out, root and stem, and do so without hesitation. Between the fleet you brought us, the Velaryons, and what remains of the ships that came with us from Essos, we have more than enough vessels to ferry our armies to the mainland.”

The old woman nods. “I am glad to hear this. How will you do it? The city walls are strong, and Cersei will let her people starve before she opens the gates in a blockade.” 

“I’ve had some thoughts regarding that, as well. As we have discussed, there is the matter of the wildfire caches under the major thoroughfares and buildings, but the city walls themselves aren’t rigged. I will use my dragons to blast open the gates and set the embattlements ablaze, and then my army shall storm the city.” He answers. “Meanwhile, I’ll dispatch Euron Greyjoy on dragonback.” 

“It seems like a good plan, Your Grace,” Davos comments, “But Theon and I got to talking, and we both have business in King’s Landing _before_ you sack it.” 

Daemon turns to face the Onion Knight. “What business is that, Ser Davos?” 

“There’s a lad I know in the city, finest blacksmith I ever met. He’d be of great use making weapons from the dragonglass we’ll mine here.” He answers. 

“And yours, Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon swallows nervously. “W-With Your Grace’s permission, I would take a crew of men to rescue Yara.” 

“You believe your sister is alive?” 

“Yes, I do. If Euron had wanted her dead, he’d have killed her in front of me. We know she was paraded through the streets of King’s Landing, but I believe that he’s keeping her prisoner on his flagship. I want to take a group to infiltrate the ship and get her out.” He says. 

Daemon considers for a moment. “Very well. I’ll consent to these errands, but understand this, regardless of if you find those you seek, even if you have not returned, the assault will go on as planned. I would recommend you travel together, for we need every ship we can spare.” 

“Understood, Your Grace.” Davos says, and Theon nods. “We’ll begin making preparations.” 

The two men depart, leaving Daemon alone with Olenna, the two of them walking a fair distance ahead of Grey Worm and Qhona. “After Cersei has been eliminated, I will need to go north to battle the Night King. No one may command my dragons but me, and they must be there to fight.” 

“Naturally.” Olenna replies, “What would Your Grace have me do?” 

“You will remain on Dragonstone with Elinor, acting as regent of the realm whilst I am engaged in the North.” He says. “I will leave Tyrion and Varys in your capable hands.” 

The old woman laughs. “Oh, joy of joys, I spend my days with a dwarf and a spider while you’re off fighting the boogeyman who wants to destroy the whole world.” 

Daemon smiles, chuckling slightly. “It’s all rather funny, isn’t it?”

“Frankly, it’s hysterical, Your Grace, but I haven’t much humor left in me. But for Elinor, I wouldn’t have _any.”_

“Which is why I want the two of you here. The dead cannot cross water, and if we fail, you might evacuate to Essos, or further, if need be.” He explains.

She looks at him with those cunning eyes. “And if you succeed in your mission, and stop this Night King, but fall in doing so?” 

“In full view of the small council, I will draft a letter naming you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in the event of my death.” Daemon promises. “You will be here, and you have an heir, a young, fertile woman who can learn statecraft from the woman who ran the Reach for decades.” 

Olenna nods. “Very well. I was once meant to marry Prince Daemon Targaryen, you know? Ludicrous lad, with far too much interest in his squire. How funny, then, that another Daemon Targaryen who is perhaps a touch too interested in his friend now makes me a princess.” 

The king knows better than to try lying to one as sharp as the Queen of Thorns. “Indeed. I once heard it said that history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.” 

**+**

Davos finds himself in Jon’s chambers at Dragonstone, the wounded former king resting on his bed after having been tended to by the maester of the island, with his wound checked and bandages changed.

“I had a funny feeling,” The old smuggler begins, sitting across from Jon in a chair, “That I would have a new king before the two of you returned.”

“You often have funny feelings,” Jon retorts, smirking, “I’m told it comes with age.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Smart-mouthed little shit. Still, you know what you’ve done?” 

“Pissed off the North, I’m sure.”

“Pissed off _your sister._ Sansa won’t take this lying down, and we both know it.” Davos corrects him. “Fuck the lords of the North. Lyanna Mormont could kill any one of those bastards in single combat, and shame them while doing it, and she’d support you even if you decided to lead the North against Daemon to try and take the throne for yourself.” 

Jon nods. “I had an idea about Sansa, actually. One that works for everyone’s favor, I think.” 

“Your plans have a notorious habit of blowing up on you, Jon Snow.” He warns.

“I don’t think this one will. After what Ramsay did to her, I doubt Sansa would ever want to marry again, and what good is a Lady of Winterfell who can’t propagate her house?” The younger man asks rhetorically. “Daemon seems to believe he’s cursed to never bear children again, and if even he isn’t, he’s admitted that he doesn’t… he’s like me, only, no women. _Ever.”_

Davos’ eyebrows go skyward at that. “You want to marry Sansa to Daemon.” 

“It aligns the Iron Throne with the North, and Arya or Bran can take Winterfell. Sansa becomes a queen, the lords of the North shut up knowing one of their own carries the ear of the king, and House Stark survives.” 

“And you get Daemon’s undivided attention.” He adds. 

“Aye,” Jon admits, “That was part of my logic.” 

The Onion Knight nods, stroking his beard in thought. “It’s… convoluted, but not a terrible idea. I just have one question.”

“What’s that?” 

“Do you love him?” Davos asks. 

For a moment, Jon is silent, but he nods his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then go tell him, boy. Find yourself some love, because we’re all running out of time.” 

**+**

That evening, as the last rays of sunlight fade into the twilight, Jon makes his way to the king’s chambers. The hallway is flanked by Unsullied guards at either end, but otherwise, is unoccupied, and he is let by without even asking. For a moment, he pauses outside the chamber door, steeling himself. Finally, he raises his fist, and knocks on the sable wood. 

Daemon opens it at once, wearing only a loose sleepshirt and a pair of linen breeches. “Jon.” He greets him, immediately stepping aside to let him and closing the door behind them. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing wrong, Your Grace,” He mechanically answers, until he forces himself to relax. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

“Of course,” The king says, gesturing for Jon to sit, “What about?”

Jon swallows his nerves, remaining standing. “About what you told me on the Wall. You… you’re not the only one. Who feels that way, I mean. I-” 

He gets no further, as Daemon crosses the room in three neat strides and pulls him into a searing kiss, one that makes Jon freeze for a moment, before he immediately melts into it. He has to tilt his head near vertical to kiss the taller man, but the scent of lemon fills his nostrils, and Daemon’s hands are like brands along the column of his neck, and it’s perfect.

The scramble to the bed, they remember in fragments. A nip at the crux of a jaw, a particularly pleasant scrape of stubble along the length of a pale neck, wandering hands and expressions of awe. When they’re finally disrobed, and Daemon kneels between Jon’s legs, towering over him even now, they finally speak.

“Have you ever…?” The king asks, gesturing to their anatomies, only inches apart. 

Jon shakes his head. “Never with a man. You?”

“I had a lover in Meereen,” He admits, “But I never was the one who… you know.” 

The Northman leans up, kissing Daemon sweetly, before resting against the pillows on the mattress once again. “I trust you,” He says, “I know you won’t hurt me.” 

Like everything else it seems with them, it’s as easy as breathing, as natural as the rising and setting of the sun. It’s well and truly perfect, perhaps the most perfect thing either of them have had in their lives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Missandei on the battlements and the dialogue from the first boat scene were both too good not to reuse. If this seems like it's worth continuing, I'll happily do the Battle of King's Landing and the Long Night, but for now, this seems like an appropriate stopping point. Drop your reviews!


	2. Nobody Leaves This Game Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since y'all liked it, here's part two!

The next morning, Daemon is awake first. He rises, making use of the chamberpot in the room off of the sleeping area, and returns, simply leaning against the doorway and taking in Jon’s bare form in the bed, the shorter man asleep on his stomach with the blankets kicked down to his knees, exposing miles of delicious skin. 

“I never considered _that_ to be one of the uses for sword oil.” Jon mutters into his pillow. “Still bloody sore.” 

The Dragon King chuckles, wandering over to the bed and easing himself against him, kissing at the back of his neck. “I’m told it’s always like that the first few times, and it certainly was for me. I’ll let you take the lead next time, if you wish.” 

“I’m quite fond of riding the dragon, I think.” He replies. 

“And I’m sure that I’m quite fond of having a wolf in my bed.” 

Jon snickers. “Just wait until you meet Ghost. He’ll take up this whole bloody bed and then some if you let him.” 

A knock at the door interrupts, before a certain musical Naathi voice carries through the door. “Your Grace, are you decent?” 

“Just a moment, Missandei.” Daemon calls, grabbing his linen pants from where they were discarded the night before, while rolling the blankets of the bed up to provide Jon some decency. “Enter.” 

The king’s handmaid strides in, carrying two stacks of clothing, one jet black, no doubt Daemon’s, the other a fresh set of tunics and breeches, presumably for Jon. “Your Grace, Lord Snow.” She says, bowing her head towards each of them. “Lord Snow, I hope you don’t find it presumptive of me, but the Unsullied informed me that you had spent the night in the king’s quarters, so I fetched some clean clothes for you.” 

Jon awkwardly nods. “Uh… thank you, Missandei.” He says stiltedly. 

“Would you two prefer to break your fast together?” She asks. 

Daemon looks to his lover, who shrugs. “We would, please.” The king says. 

“I’ll leave you to get dressed, and I’ll come back with your meals.” 

“Thank you,” He replies, “It’s very much appreciated.” 

Missandei bows once again. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

After she’s gone, Jon looks to Daemon like he’s gone mad, prompting a curious noise from the king. “What?” He asks. 

“She just… while we were… I-” 

“They love freely on Naath, Jon,” Daemon explains. “She has no reason to even question our relationship, it’s as perfectly natural as any other in her eyes. As for the Unsullied or the Dothraki, their loyalty to me is unbreakable. Rest assured, there’s not a soul on this isle who would object to what we are, unless Ser Davos has an issue?”

He shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. He was the one who… encouraged me to seek you out.” 

“Then we’ve no need to hide here.” He says, as though it’s as simple as that. 

_When you’ve got three dragons and the greatest army the world has ever seen, maybe it_ is _as simple as that,_ Jon reasons to himself. 

**+**

Days later, the complete small council, now joined by one Lord Monford Velaryon, gathers to plan the invasion of King’s Landing. Surprisingly, the one taking the lead is Tyrion. 

“I led the defense of King’s Landing from Stannis at the Battle of the Blackwater,” He begins, “So, who better to plan the fall of the city?” 

Daemon nods approvingly. “Indeed, Lord Tyrion. You and I discussed my initial plans in private last night, and you had some notions.” 

The former Hand steps up to the painted table, gesturing to the Crownlands. “With the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets, we’re nearly at as many ships as we had when we arrived, meaning we are able to ferry the full bulk of our forces to the mainland in a single run now, rather than the staged delivery we had planned. This is to our benefit.” 

“Indeed,” Monford Velaryon speaks. “Euron Greyjoy’s fleet controls Blackwater Bay itself, but _we_ control the mouth of the bay. There’ll be no reinforcements coming for them through it.”

“It also means, however, that we will not be able to land at King’s Landing. Instead, I propose we land _here,”_ Tyrion points to Massey’s Hook. “At the border between Stonedance and Wendwater. It should take no more than a day to ferry and unload our men and supplies, and I estimate a three day march to the capital.” 

Daemon appraises the map. “What of House Massey and House Bar Emmon? They might not take kindly to an army of Reachmen, Unsullied, and Dothraki marching through their lands.” 

“As it so happens, Your Grace,” Olenna speaks up, “Just this morn we received a raven from Lord Duram of House Bar Emmon pledging his loyalty to House Targaryen, and saying that he was urging House Massey to do the same.” 

“That is excellent news. House Bar Emmon marches with us, then?” The king asks. 

“Yes, Your Grace. One thousand men. Not many, but all they have.” She answers. 

“We have the numbers, we needn’t add more, especially at the cost of stability in the region. Lord Varys, send a raven to Lord Bar Emmon telling him that he need only pledge his best two hundred and fifty men to our cause, and that he should join us here as soon as possible.” He orders. “Send a similar raven to Lord Massey asking for his loyalty, his presence, and only the best quarter of his forces.” 

Varys bows and sweeps from the room. “At once, Your Grace.” 

The king appraises the map. “One day to land our men and supplies, and three to reach King’s Landing. Lord Tyrion, the city is a rectangle, correct?” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” He confirms. 

“How wide?” 

“Twelve miles by ten, approximately.” 

Daemon nods, deep in thought. “That shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to set the ramparts ablaze and the gates blasted open. Then the matter becomes dealing with Euron’s fleet.” 

“I had a thought regarding that, _Khal.”_ Jorah speaks for the first time since the meeting began. “It requires Lord Snow.” 

“Me?” Jon asks. 

“Yes. From what the king has told me, Drogon has been… unusually accommodating towards you. Perhaps one of the other dragons would be as well.” He proposes. 

The Northman’s eyes go wide like the moon. “You want me to ride a dragon?” He exhales. 

“It’s not a terrible idea, actually. A second dragonrider would be able to begin the assault on the fleet whilst I dealt with the city walls.” The king says. “You told me you don’t know the identity of your mother, Lord Snow. Is it not possible that she could have been of Valyrian ancestry, perhaps even a distant descendant of some Targaryen bastard or other?” 

“I suppose it is. What if the others reject me?” 

“I would not allow them to harm you, you have my word on that.” Daemon promises. “If you would like, we could try after our luncheon. I find it best to fly on a full stomach.” He lightly suggests, bringing chuckles throughout the room. 

After a moment’s deliberation, Jon finally nods. “Aye, we’ll give it a go.”

**+**

They really have no clue how to do this. After all, Daemon hadn’t ridden Drogon until the incident at the fighting pits back in Meereen, and that was a series of extenuating circumstances he had no interest in ever repeating. The dragons have taken to nesting along the deadened volcanic peak of the islands, and the two men make their way there after a noontime meal.

Reaching where all three of the dragons are curled and resting, Daemon approaches first to Drogon, running his hands along his massive flank as he speaks to him Valyrian. This immediately prompts Rhaegal and Viserion to raise their heads in interest, chirping as they demand attention from their father. 

Jon watches hesitantly from the edge of the nest, unable to help but smile as he watches the king with his sons. It’s such a different persona than the one he presents at small councils or when they receive a lord or lady pledging their fealty to the right ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. This is the kind, gentle man that has Jon so enchanted, the one who treasures his dragons more than anything else in the world, the man who freed the slaves of the east and now fought to free the west. 

“Come here,” Daemon instructs, gesturing for him to approach where he’s stroking along Rhaegal’s snout. “Something tells me green is your color.” 

He grabs Jon’s hand from behind, lacing his fingers through his and guiding him to touch the warm, scaly skin of Rhaegal’s head. _“Kessa ao rual zirȳla naejot kipagon ao?”_

“I’ve not the foggiest clue what you just said.” Jon remarks. 

“It wasn’t for you, love, it was for him.” He returns. 

Rhaegal gives a deep, satisfied sound, somewhere between a purr and snarl, and he somehow manages to grow even warmer under Jon’s touch. Carefully, Daemon unwinds his hand, leaving him alone with his hand resting against the skin of an unclaimed dragon who’s never had a rider in all the days of his life. 

_Fucking Gods, what have I gotten myself into?_ He thinks to himself, absolutely incredulous. 

Jon turns, watching as the king eases himself upon Drogon. “Well, Jon Snow, no time like the present.” 

“What?” The word comes out flat.

“Mount him.” Daemon says, like it’s all rather obvious, just a simple matter of climbing on the back of an _untamed dragon._

In spite of every bit of common sense telling him to run screaming, the Northman listens to the part of him that trusts the Father of Dragons implicitly. Praying to any number of Gods that will listen that he isn’t turned to ash by an irate Rhaegal, Jon makes his way towards where the green beast’s wing and shoulder are flat against the ground, almost looking like an invitation. 

“Alright, lad, don’t kill me over this.” He says, grasping at a horn emerging from Rhaegal’s shoulder and swinging himself up. “Like mounting a horse.” He mutters, trying to reassure himself as he grips to the horns with all he has in him. 

Almost immediately, the dragon rises, positioning himself on the wrists of his wings and chirruping eagerly. The other two follow suit, and from across the nest, Jon locks eyes with Daemon, who smirks like he’s about to do something extremely funny. 

_“Soves.”_ The king declares. 

That’s the last thing he processes until he’s suddenly half a mile above the Blackwater Bay, the clouds so close they could be touched by his open hand, the sun seeming all the brighter in the sky, the sea the most relentless shade of blue he’s ever seen in his life, moreso even than the burning azure embers of the Night King’s eyes. 

From behind, there’s a sound of hysterical laughter, and Jon turns, catching sight of Daemon on his mount, and the laughter is coming from _him._ Without hesitation, he leans in, and Rhaegal follows somehow, immediately knowing what it is he wants even before he’s fully sure of it. _That’s it,_ he thinks, _Bring me close to him._

The two dragons, green and black, wind up orbiting one another, while Viserion dances in the distance. “Something funny, Your Grace?!” He calls, hoping that he hears him. 

“Just the way you screamed the entire way up here!” Daemon replies, still giggling like a naughty child. “Follow me!” 

They move as one throughout the sky, flying southward towards Massey’s Hook. They race along the coastline that is dotted by the small boats of fishermen, whose crews no doubt watch in incredulous awe as not one, not two, but _three_ grown dragons dance in the skies above their waters. After a period of flying inland, Daemon performs a sharp bank on Drogon, and Jon urges Rhaegal to follow, which he does, moving every bit as gracefully as his larger brother. 

Eventually, the very end of Massey’s Hook comes into view, and a small but sturdy keep flying banners blazoned with a tri-colored triskelion stands starkly against the glittering sapphire seas and the green of the beachgrass. Stonedance, the seat of House Massey, with the city of Sharp Point located in the distance. The men of the keep quickly begin to scramble around, like ants whose colony has been kicked, and Jon feels a rush of dark mirth at the sight of it. What chance would they stand against them? House Massey could be extinguished in minutes if Daemon were so inclined. 

Luckily, the king is in no mood for violence, especially not against a man whose loyalty he seeks. Drogon touches down outside the main entrance of the castle, and Jon is surprised by how simple guiding Rhaegal down is. Again, it is as though his mount knows his intentions even before he’s fully processed them. Both dragons immediately rush together, chirping and letting out little puffs of smoke to one another, while Viserion remains airborne, gliding in lazy circles over keep and snapping unsuspecting seabirds from the sky, not even roasting them first. 

A rather plain-looking man in blue and green comes towards them, trailed by a striking Valyrian woman who wears a patternless teal dress. The lord and lady of the keep, no doubt. Lord Massey bows, as does his wife.

“Your Grace,” He says, a tremble in his voice, “I welcome you to Stonedance. I am Josan Massey, and this is my wife, Lady Maela of House Velaryon.” 

“A pleasure,” Daemon intones. “I ask your forgiveness for the unannounced intrusion.” 

Massey nods his head. “Certainly. It’s a most rare honor to host the king and his… forgive me, I am unfamiliar with you, my lord.” He says, looking at Jon. 

“This is Lord Jon Snow, Warden of the North.” The king says. “And now only the second dragonrider to exist since the Dance.” The last part comes out with a great deal of pride.

The lord of Sharp Point’s eyes bulge at the revelation. “… Indeed. Well, Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I think you know, Lord Massey, why I am here.” Daemon says, his friendly tone hiding a definite edge to the words. 

“The matter of my house’s loyalty.” He replies. “Your Grace, the many wars have exhausted our lands and our men. I am left with less than two thousand men to defend the city from pirates and all other manner of interlopers.”

The Dragon King nods. “Precisely how many, my lord?” 

“I believe one-thousand seven-hundred, Your Grace.” 

“My army brims, Lord Massey. If you would give me four hundred of your finest, to represent your house in our host, I would be much obliged. The only other things I ask of you are your blessing to cross the land of the Hook on my march to King’s Landing, and that you join my war council on Dragonstone. Once the city has fallen and my reign is secure, you and your men will be free to return home and live out your days in peace.”

“Husband,” Maela speaks, “I would recommend you accept the offering.”

“Your wife is wise, my lord.” Jon comments.

After a moment’s deliberation, Massey locks eyes with Daemon. “My house was among the first to recognize Aegon the Conqueror, even going so far as to defy their lieges. We fought for Rhaenyra during the Dance of Dragons, and my own brother died alongside yours at the Trident. I swear, as Lord of Stonedance, that House Massey shall stand with House Targaryen from this day until the end of days.” He drops to his knee, and lays out his great sword at the feet of the king. 

“Arise, my lord,” Daemon says. “The winds are kind, and it’s no more than four hours from here to Dragonstone. Join us, your lady wife is welcome as well. If you leave now, you may yet make it in time for supper, and I assure you, my cooks are the finest that Essos has to offer.” 

**+**

Securing the loyalty of the Velaryons, Masseys, and Bar Emmons, even if the last two bring little in terms of material support or manpower, is a crucial stepping stone to taking King’s Landing. By building support in the Crownlands now, it will make it easier for Olenna and the small council to govern in the interim when the king is gone north to fight the dead. The ever-expanding Court of Dragonstone, as Lord Velaryon has taken to calling it, has just finished supping together and is listening to Daemon tell stories of his time in Essos when Grey Worm enters, bending down to speak directly into the king’s ear.

 _“A man with a golden hand has surrendered himself to our men on the shore.”_ He says softly in Valyrian. 

Daemon pauses, realizing just who has come to Dragonstone. _“We will receive him in the throne room. Make sure he is chained._ My lords and ladies, if you would be so kind as to join me in the throne room, it appears our court has garnered a guest.” He says. 

The group speaks amongst themselves, wondering just who the mysterious guest is. Meanwhile, Jon rushes up to walk next to Daemon. “Just who is this guest?” 

“Someone very valuable, Jon.” He answers. “When we assemble, I want you directly to my left.” 

The king takes his seat on the Dragonglass Throne, with Olenna seated on a folding chair to his right, and Jon standing to his left. The rest of the group flanks to the sides of the room, until, minutes later, the doors open. There, flanked by two Unsullied and held in chains, stands Jaime Lannister. 

“Jaime!” Tyrion chokes out, while the others, previously whispering to themselves in intrigue, have fallen silent.

The Lord Commander of Cersei Lannister’s Queensguard looks to his brother, and gives a ghastly smile before he is dragged forward and made to kneel before Daemon. Missandei steps forward, announcing the king.

“You are in the presence of Daemon Stormborn of House Targaryen, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Father of Dragons, the King of Meereen, the Khal of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.” She says, her voice echoing through the chamber.

After a moment of silence, Daemon rises from his throne, looking down at the man kneeling before him. Without speaking, he lets out a sharp kick directly to Jaime’s stomach, forcing him forward, and then returns to his seat. 

“Jaime Lannister. You murdered my father, your king, whom you were sworn to protect. You ran your sword through his back and sat upon his throne without any right to do so.” He says, his voice dangerously level. 

“I did.” The golden man forces out, still winded from the king’s foot. 

“I’ll say something that I doubt you have ever heard.” Daemon intones, waiting for Jaime to look up at him. “Thank you.” 

“I…?” He trails, stunned. 

The king nods. “Yes, I said _‘thank you’._ My father was a maddened animal who would have taken a million lives out of petty spite, and you prevented that, sacrificing your honor and your vows for the good of the realm.” 

“If I may, Your Grace,” Jaime says, “If you are grateful for it, why did you strike me?”

“He was still my father. Why do you come here? Surely Cersei knows better than to send the leader of her forces to my door, so I can only assume this is some sort of defection. The question is why?” He says. 

He stands, brushing himself off to the best of his abilities. “She’s… insane. Cersei has seen your father as something of an inspiration, it seems. She has taken all of the wildfire from around King’s Landing and placed it in the bowels of the Red Keep, and intends to destroy it with everyone inside rather than permit you to capture it.” 

The room explodes into aghast shock and hurried whispers, while Tyrion’s face crumbles, and he bites his lip to hold back bitter tears. Even Daemon is shocked by the revelation, leaning back in his chair, while unconsciously reaching out for Jon, who lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“How much damage would that do to the surrounding city?” The king asks. “Tyrion?” 

“Estimates say there were thousands of gallons of the stuff, enough to rupture the major thoroughfares and annihilate the guildhalls. All the wildfire in the city, exploding in one place at the same time? I suspect it would level everything in a mile, and certainly shatter windows in all directions for many miles on end. I doubt there has ever been so powerful an explosion since the Doom of Valyria.” The youngest Lannister says, his voice monotonous with shock. 

Olenna speaks up. “And the fires caused by the falling debris would do much worse.” She adds. “I witnessed the results of what she did at the Sept of Baelor. Every building within a quarter mile was lost to flame.” 

Sighing, Daemon slouches forward, burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he inhales deeply, and looks to his court, all anxiously awaiting their king’s word.

“Well…” He trails, _“Fuck.”_

**+**

“We need to get Davos and Theon out of there, _now!”_ Jon barks once they’re in private. 

Daemon shakes his head. “They’re safe for the moment. Cersei won’t kill herself now, not when she thinks she’s got me by my bollocks, but we need to be exceedingly careful now. Taking the city cannot happen unless Cersei and her Hand are dead first.”

“You want to send in a group to assassinate them.” He says, immediately understanding the king’s thought process. 

“Yes, but you’re not going.” Jon goes to protest, but he raises a hand, “Jon, you are Rhaegal’s rider now, the only dragonrider in the world besides me, and you _must_ be alive to ride him against the Night King. Infiltrating the Red Keep is just short of a suicide mission, and I won’t let you needlessly endanger yourself on a job that can be done by others.”

The Northman sits down on the edge of the bed. “Would my king have me stay here during the taking of the city, then?” He says, clipped and rather sarcastic. 

“Don’t.” Daemon softly replies, walking over to kiss him gently. “You will be there beside me when I take the city. When Missandei names me king in the throne room before all the realm, you will stand where you stood today at my left hand. Jon Snow, I name you my master of war and commander of my armies.” 

“Daemon…” He trails, clearly overwhelmed by the sudden appointment.

“For once in your life, Jon, stop talking, stop thinking, and just follow your instincts.”

He’s not the least bit surprised when those instincts lead to Jon wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him onto the bed with him.

**+**

Tyrion steps into the quarters provided to his brother. Frankly, he’s impressed that the king didn’t throw him directly into the dungeons, and deeply relieved that he didn’t give Jaime to Drogon’s flame without even listening to what he had to say. There’s no doubt, however, that his brother is a prisoner here, especially given the two Dothraki women standing directly outside of his door, which bolts from the outside. 

“I was wondering when you’d make your way here.” Jaime says from where he’s sprawled across a chair near his open window, watching the moon rise in the eastern sky.

Tyrion crosses the room, pouring himself a glass of wine from the flagon supplied to the room. “Indeed.”

“So, get on with it.” 

“With what?”

The older man sits up straight, gesturing for a glass to be poured for him as well. “The gloating. The _‘I told you so,’_ the declaration of victory. Here I stand, in the house of my enemy, finally betraying Cersei. Rub it in, little brother.” 

“Jaime, I know just how hard what you did was. You could’ve been content to lead us into a trap, one that likely would’ve killed everyone here, and you would’ve died with the woman you love. I’m not going to rub anything in.”

“I appreciate that,” He murmurs, “More than you realize.” 

The dwarf raises a brow. “What happened to hating me for what I did to our father?”

“I’ve had time to grieve, to think back and realize what an absolute bastard the man was. I won’t say I forgive you, because I don’t, but I will say I understand.” Jaime says. 

“No, you don’t.” He sharply replies. “Jaime, I am many things, a drunk, a whoremonger, a kinslayer, a fucking _dwarf,_ but do not take me for a stupid man, for that I am not. Why are you here? What possible purpose could you have for surrendering yourself to us?!” 

The Kingslayer looks down at his gilded hand, deep in shame. “She’s pregnant.” 

Tyrion gives out a heavy sigh, leaning his head backwards. _“Gods damn it!”_

“I know.” 

“The king will not kill a babe in his mother’s belly.” 

“I know.” 

“Unlike our father.”

“I said I fucking know!” Jaime explodes. 

The former Hand of the King walks toward the door. “His Grace will need to know this immediately. For what it’s worth, Jaime, I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

**+**

_“Gods above lad, could you be any louder?”_ Davos whispers.

Gendry, for his part, blushes deeply, somehow managing to turn red even under the paling light of the moon. _“Sorry!”_

_“Don’t be sorry, be quiet!”_

Getting in and out of King’s Landing is much trickier than it was back in the day, but Davos isn’t called the greatest smuggler this side of the Narrow Sea without reason. Dodging goldcloaks and moving under the cover of night through the shit-stained streets of King’s Landing, the two men have nearly made it where their escape craft has been stowed along the banks of the Blackwater Rush. 

Meanwhile, Theon and his men have taken the main ship out onto the bay in order to rescue Yara Greyjoy, who they believe is being held on the _Silence,_ Euron’s flagship. The hope is that they may yet take out their uncle, but Yara is the priority. 

As they move out onto the bay, Gendry lets out a wry scoff. “Every time you people show up, I wind up rowing somewhere.”

“I figured you’d still be rowing, to be entirely honest.” Davos replies. “We’re nearly there, anyway, and soon you won’t have to row anymore.”

“No, just face the man whose father mine overthrew.” He snarks. “I’ve heard the stories of Daemon Targaryen, and I have a feeling that I’m going to be dragon food before this is done.” 

The old smuggler laughs. “You’re in for a surprise, lad. His Grace is not one to just go feeding people to his dragons. Anyway, you’d be roasted first, the beasts aren’t fond of raw meat.” 

_“That’s_ comforting.” Gendry mutters.

After reaching a certain point out, they stop rowing, and wait. Moments later, a lone ship, flying plain black sails, comes into view. “That’s Theon.” Davos says.

The little dingy is picked up not a few minutes later, and Gendry stands on the deck of the ship, rolling his shoulder, while Davos approaches Theon, speaking quietly. “How is she?” He asks.

“Banged up, but surprisingly intact. He didn’t even remove anything from her. Liked to cut her, though. Not to mention… well, you know exactly what sort of monster Euron is.” He replies. “She’s resting.”

“His Grace would like to see her if she’s up to it. I suspect he’s still awake at this hour.” 

“No one’s getting much sleep these days,” Theon says, “Though the king isn’t sleeping for different reasons.” He gives a tiny little smirk, showing just a hint of the man he was before all the horror. 

“If only we were all so blessed.” Davos dryly replies.

His face crinkles in disgust. “With Joanna Snow? Absolutely not. Be like sleeping with my annoying brother.” 

The journey back to Dragonstone is blessedly uneventful, and when they drop their moorings near the beach, Davos can make out a welcoming party awaiting for them on the sand. One of the figures is little more than a mass of black, the other seems to glow preternaturally in the moonlight, and they are surrounded by shadows. Jon, Daemon, and a detachment of Unsullied guards, no doubt. 

He finally gets his first look at Yara since her rescue. She is pale, drawn and filthy, and her eyes are distinctly haunted in a way that not even war can do to someone. Nonetheless, the Queen of the Iron Islands is defiant in her posture and her mouth is drawn in a grim line of determination. _She’s strong,_ Davos thinks to himself, _Strong enough to bend even the iron wills of those island reavers. She’ll be a good queen._

They unload onto the beach, and immediately Daemon is there, approaching Yara cautiously. “Are you well, Queen Yara?” He asks softly. 

“Much better now that Theon’s come and got me.” She says, looking at her brother with pride. 

“And Euron?”

“Fucker’s off in King’s Landing, no doubt trying to put a prince in Cersei’s belly.” 

The king nods. “If we capture him, I’ll make sure you’re there to witness Drogon eat him alive.” He vows. 

Yara gives a ghost of a smile. “Much appreciated. I’d also appreciate it if your maester could see to me.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes, uh…” She trails, perhaps for the first time, ashamed. “Make sure he brings moon tea.” 

Fire burns behind Daemon’s eyes at the implication. “It will be done.” He says, clipped. “Go rest, he’ll be with you soon.” 

Theon and the other Ironborn take Yara up to the castle, leaving Daemon, Jon, Davos, and Gendry, along with the Unsullied guards. “Ser Davos,” He says, “This is the blacksmith you mentioned?” 

“Indeed it is, Your Grace. May I introduce Gendry Waters, I met him during my time with Stannis Baratheon.” Davos replies. 

The young blacksmith blanches at the sight of the Targaryen king. “A-Actually, Your Grace,” He stutters, “I must inform you of something. As you know, my name is Waters. I am a bastard, you see. A bastard… of King Robert.” 

Daemon blinks, cocking his head. “Yes, from what I’m told of the Baratheons, you fit the profile, but you certainly could be the son of some Stormlander or other. Ser Davos, is there any way you can affirm this young man’s story?” 

“He is as he says. The Red Woman who returned Jon to life also named him as Robert’s bastard, and used the boy’s blood in her magics.” He says. 

“Very well,” The king nods. “Gendry Waters, if you will swear fealty to House Targaryen now and in perpetuity, then I give you my word as king that I shall forgive you for the crimes of your father.” 

Gendry drops to his knee at once. “I- I swear it, Your Grace.” 

Daemon smiles. “Good. Now, walk with me, ser, and I will explain why we have brought you to our charming little isle.”

While the two of them walk, Davos and Jon are left alone. They make their way back to Jon’s rooms, sitting together to speak. 

“There’s been a development.” Jon says, his voice grave, “Cersei has taken the wildfire throughout the city and stockpiled it all beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. As soon as we take King’s Landing, she’ll detonate it all. Tyrion says it could wipe out half the fucking city in one blast.”

Davos blinks. “Shit.” 

“Aye. The king is authorizing a small number of men to infiltrate the Keep in order to assassinate Cersei and her Hand, that way no one can set off the wildfire.” He explains. “He’s forbidden me from going.” 

“Why?”

“… I may be a dragonrider now.”

**+**

“She’s _what?!”_

“Pregnant, Your Grace.” Jaime says at the small council meeting in the painted room the next morning. “Two moons, she thinks.” 

Daemon’s eyes flash with rage for a moment, before he calms. “This explains quite a bit. It also gives us leverage.” 

“You clearly don’t know Cersei. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for her children.” The defector says. “She is more dangerous now than ever.” 

“You answer yourself, Ser Jaime. Putting the wildfire below the Keep is a bluff. She knows she can’t win, and she knows that I fully intend to put her to the flame the moment I have my hands on her.” He retorts. “This news changes that. I won’t kill a babe for the sins of its mother. We will march on King’s Landing as planned, and the infiltration of the Red Keep will go as planned, but we will not kill Cersei, nor shall we storm the city.” 

Olenna leans forward in her seat, tenting her fingers. “What do you intend to do, then, Your Grace?” 

“Call her bluff. Our men will infiltrate the Red Keep and kill this Qyburn character to make sure that no one sets off the wildfire, meanwhile I will make her an offer she cannot refuse.” The king says. “We will furnish her with a ship and a stipend, and offer her exile to Essos with the solemn vow that her children will never again be threatened by House Targaryen.” 

“You would _let her go?!”_ The Hand of the King snarls, immediately furious. 

“For the next seven moons, yes, my Lady Hand,” He replies, “And then, in the dead of night, she and her babe will be stolen from their beds and brought back to King’s Landing. Ser Jaime will have his child and heir, and Cersei will be put to the flame.” 

Jon catches sight of the way Jaime pales at the discussion at hand. “You had to know this was coming, ser.” He says. “Cersei must pay for her many crimes.” 

“Knowing it must happen and hearing the execution of your sister being planned out in cold detail are two _very_ different things.” He briskly retorts. 

Tyrion raises his hand to speak. “I volunteer to lead the mission into the Red Keep. I spent years smuggling whores for myself and Robert in and out of the place, there isn’t a soul who knows the hidden tunnels better than myself.”

The king deliberates for a moment, before nodding. “You will lead Qhona and Grey Worm’s second-in-command, Dāez, along with a group of four Unsullied.”

“I presume I am to remain prisoner here, then.” Jaime says. 

“You presume correctly, Ser Jaime. When King’s Landing is won, we will discuss your fate further. Obviously, you shall not serve in my kingsguard, so we may yet repatriate you to Casterly Rock, should you bend the knee and prove truly loyal. I warn you, though, Lannister, that if I detect even the barest hint of treason from you, the things I shall do to you will make my father’s sadisms look civilized.” 

“And how might I prove my loyalty whilst I am a guest upon Dragonstone, Your Grace?” He dryly questions. 

“You shall have your chance when we march north to face an enemy even greater than your sister.” Daemon cooly retorts. “Now, the Dothraki and Unsullied are prepared, and the bannermen from House Bar Emmon and House Massey arrived this morning. Let us begin to load the ships.” 

**+**

As the last rays of light give way, the final ships ferrying the Targaryen armies make their landing at the beginning of Massey’s Hook, making camp upon their landing ground immediately. The final ship bears the king’s commanders, spare the ladies Olenna and Elinor, who have stayed upon Dragonstone with a skeleton contingent for protection, and Daemon and Jon, who have supervised the unloading of the forces from the air, fully prepared to put any interloping ships to dragonfire.

When the dragons touch down and their riders dismount, there is a sense of anxious anticipation in the air, for it means the whole force has arrived, and at dawn, they will march to war. Ostensibly, Jon and Daemon share a tent, as it spares supplies, never mind the fact that Jon and Davos brought their own supplies when they came to Dragonstone, tents included. 

Inside their tent, the two men are curled together on a set of furs spread over Daemon’s cot, catching their breath in the aftermath of their evening activities. Without hesitation, Jon settles into his king’s side, tracing a pattern in the skin of his chest. 

“We’re really doing this. In a few days, it all changes.” He says. “No more hiding away on Dragonstone. No more just the two of us.” 

Daemon nods, running his hands along the plains of Jon’s back. “It changes for the better. The people of Westeros will be free, and then the whole country turns its eyes to the White Walkers. When they are defeated, you and I will take the lead and build a new world, a _better_ world.”

“I don’t know what it means to build a new world.” 

“I’ve seen it, Jon, and it’s beautiful. A world where a bastard and an exiled prince can be whatever they wish, even lovers. A world where a woman coming to a throne won’t spark a civil war. A world where even a dragon can learn to plant trees.” He says. “Do you believe I’m good, Jon?”

He rolls onto his stomach, locking eyes with Daemon. “What sort of question is that, ‘course I believe you’re fuckin’ good.” 

“And I _know_ you’re good. You’re the most honorable man I’ve ever met, and I knew Barristan Selmy. If we are good, Jon, then the world we build will be good, because it will be ours.” 

“What about everyone else?” He asks. “Everyone else who’s good?”

“It will be _their_ world, too. We won’t build it alone. No one can build a whole new world on their own, not even a dragonrider. Look at us, at our court. Two former slaves, an old woman, a dwarf, a bastard, a prince-in-exile, and the only female bloodriders in the whole Dothraki Sea. _That_ is the new world. A world where everyone has a place and has worth. _That,_ Jon, is what I see when I promise to break the wheel. Freedom, irrespective of who you are, the circumstances of your birth, even who you love. The new world is freedom for everyone. No slaves and no masters.” Daemon says, more fiercely determined than Jon has ever seen him. 

He believes it, because Daemon Stormborn makes impossible things happen, and for anyone else, an entirely new world would be impossible, but not for him. Jon’s just happy to be by his side while he does it. 

**+**

Three days later, the allied armies of Houses Targaryen, Tyrell, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, and Massey arrive at the walls of King’s Landing. They set their encampment within sight of the city, but out of range of any trebuchets or catapults on the ramparts. The dragons soar overhead of the camp, never straying far from it, and certainly not flying anywhere near King’s Landing. 

At the war council, Daemon debuts the fine armor that he hasn’t yet had much reason to wear, along with the Valyrian steel short sword that he wears at his hip. The armor is made of black plate, with mail underneath it. The king’s helm is crowned with three dragon heads, and a pair of wings jut from the sides. The sigil of House Targaryen is worn in the breastplate, embossed outwards, and all along the edges of the plate are carved broken links of chains. 

_He looks like Aegon reborn,_ Jon thinks to himself, dumbstruck by the glory of the man before him. Somehow, in the intervening days of travel, Daemon has found time to requisition a set of armor for him as well. It’s made of shining silver plate, with the roaring wolf’s head of House Stark and the three headed dragon facing another on the gorget. The helmet bears the pointed ears of a wolf, and the face protector is shaped into a set of jaws, while eyes and a snout are carved into the forehead. The edges of the plates, rather than bearing broken chains, are decorated with embossed snowflakes.

“Lord Tyrion will lead the men into the Red Keep to neutralize Qyburn, whilst we will march on the city, but _will not attack it.”_ Daemon instructs. “We will treat with Cersei, and when she surrenders, we will enter the city.”

Lord Velaryon speaks. “And if she doesn’t?” 

“That is why Qyburn has to be killed. If Cersei refuses, we proceed with the attack, knowing _we_ control the wildfire. Jon, you and I will patrol the skies over the fields outside King’s Landing. When I land to offer her my terms, you will remain in the skies. If you see me take off and begin attacking, fly out over the Blackwater with Rhaegal, Viserion will follow. Start destroying the Iron Fleet, I will join you once I’ve blasted open the gates of the city.” He instructs. 

“Aye, Your Grace.” Jon says, bowing his head. 

Daemon faces the nobles of the Crownlands next. “Lords Velaryon, Massey, Bar Emmon, you will remain at the head of the host with Grey Worm and Rhokarra, leading our ground forces into the city.” 

The three men bow, acknowledging their king’s orders. Next, he dispatches orders in Valyrian and Dothraki to the other commanders, before straightening up and addressing the whole room. “Today, my lords, we end decades of tyranny that began under my mad father. Today, we set King’s Landing free. Tomorrow, we secure that freedom in the North. Let us go, my friends, and fight for _everyone’s_ freedom. Fire and Blood!”

 _“Fire and Blood!”_ The assembled men cry out. 

**+**

“Tunnel too small.” Qhona complains, marching behind Tyrion in the bowels of the Red Keep.

“Perhaps you’re too large.” He lightly returns. 

She smirks at him in the dim lighting. “You talk big for small man, see how you do against my _arakh.”_

“My dear Qhona, you know by now that I am joking. I swear, there’s not a Dothraki with a sense of humor.”

“We have jokes. You just not funny.” 

That prompts a snicker from Dāez, and a bare hint of mirth crosses the faces of the other Unsullied in their group. They come to a forked tunnel, and Tyrion points to the right passage. “That way leads to the main basement, which is where Jaime said the wildfire is. I must go this way.” He gestures to the left. 

“That is not the plan.” Dāez objects. 

“Yes, I know, but I must do this. Please, I implore you, what I do will end this, once and for all.” He insists. 

“Small man is loyal to khal. I trust him.” Qhona says. 

Finally, the Unsullied leader nods. Tyrion slips down the left passage, while the group continues down the right one. After a period of time, they enter an enormous chamber, one lit with a faint, sickly green glow. Barrels upon barrels are stacked as high as the ceilings, which are so large that they could easily house all three of the king’s dragons with room to spare. 

The Dothraki woman curses, before turning to the Unsullied with her. “This is an evil place.” 

“Actually, my dear,” A wispy voice calls from behind them, “It is a place of science.” 

Immediately, they whirl around to see an old man in black robes standing some forty feet away from them. They recognize the symbol on his chest that identifies him as Qyburn, the target of their assassination mission. More horridly, they see that he holds a burning candle in his hand, a candle that he holds over an open barrel of wildfire.

“I was beginning to wonder when you lot would arrive.” 

**+**

There are no guards in the residence, not even Cersei’s unnatural pet that Qyburn stitched together from whatever was left of Gregor Clegane. Tyrion isn’t surprised by this, his sister has always been overconfident of her own abilities, though she’s made up for it in ruthlessness. He walks into her study, and when she looks up, Cersei doesn’t even seem surprised at his presence.

“You know why I’m here.” He says. 

“Because you’re never far from my enemies. Because _you_ are my enemy.” She returns cooly. “What offer do you have? A swift beheading instead of dragonfire for my surrender?” 

Tyrion shakes his head. “Freedom. Jaime told us why you’re doing this, why you’ve rigged the keep to explode on your word. Surrender, and the king will give you a ship and a stipend, and send you to Essos. You and your babe will be safe, you have my word.” 

Cersei stands, walking over to the window, and looking to the west, where Daemon’s armies have gathered outside of the city. “How many are there?”

“Seventy thousand, and fifty thousand Dothraki.” He replies.

“You count the Dothraki separately?” 

“You saw what they did to your host on the Roseroad. The Dothraki definitely count separately.”

“And three dragons…” She mutters to herself, before grasping the goblet that rests on the windowsill and bringing it to her mouth. The goblet filled with _wine._

Tyrion sees this immediately. “Why are you drinking? You _never_ drink when you’re pregnant.”

She looks down at the cup in her hand. “My city is under attack by a foreign monster and his hordes. The little imp whom I’m cursed to share blood with that murdered my father stands before me, my own twin brother has betrayed me. I have plenty of reason to drink.”

“And plenty of reason to protect the babe you say grows within you.” He shoots back. “You’re not really pregnant.” 

The queen faces him square on, two sets of emerald eyes locking, before she smiles, wide and mocking. “No, I’m not. I’ve been religiously drinking moon tea since Euron Greyjoy has decided he’s going to put a prince in me.” 

Blind fury reigns in Tyrion’s mind. A lifetime’s worth of betrayals and cruelties from Cersei are all he can see. Her lies, her evil, the lives she’s taken, it plays through his memories on a loop. Tommen, Myrcella, Margaery Tyrell, the thousands of innocents killed in the destruction of the Sept. With a roar, the man known as the Dwarf of Casterly Rock grabs a nearby vase and lobs it at the monster he calls his sister. 

Cersei falls with a shout, and before she can even scramble to recover, Tyrion is on top of her, filled with a rage he hasn’t felt in all his years, something so all consuming and hot that he wonders if he won’t transform into a dragon for all the power he feels in his hands as he wraps them around her neck. 

He is silent as he chokes the life from her, locking eyes the entire time. In Cersei’s, he sees nothing but defiance. Her delicate hands scrape and claw at his, but he will not be deterred. She _must_ die. At long last, her struggles become feeble, and the fight in her eyes fades to something like calm acceptance, and then, _finally,_ she is gone. 

Cersei Lannister is dead. 

When he rises from her corpse, Tyrion takes a deep breath, and walks out of the study. Outside, lining the colonnade, there are a dozen queensguard in their black armor and white cloaks. Standing in the center of the map is none other than the Mountain himself. The undead beast pulls out his enormous great sword, longer than Tyrion is tall, and points it directly at him. 

Another member of the queensguard steps forward, and calls out. “The queen is dead!”

At once, bells start ringing all throughout the Red Keep, and Tyrion feels a deep sense of dread fill him. Meanwhile, in the basement, where the standoff between the rest of the team and Qyburn continues, the Hand looks up as the distant peel of bells reaches their ears. 

“Ah,” He says, “It seems the queen is dead.”

With that, he drops the candle into the wildfire below him.

**+**

High above the city, Daemon and Drogon move throughout the skies, trailed by Jon on Rhaegal and the riderless Viserion. The king is filled with anxiety as he waits for Tyrion to reappear along the beach where he entered, giving the signal that Qyburn is dead and the basement secure by the Qhona and the Unsullied.

The sky is cloudless and the day is warm, but even that cannot distract him from the nerves that gnaw at him. As the three dragons move over their armies, Daemon turns to look at the Red Keep, the very seat of his ancestors for centuries, and feels a possessiveness for it fill him. _I will take what is mine, with fire and blood if necessary,_ he thinks to himself. The stillness and calm of the day is shattered in a single, terrible second. A flash brighter than the sun appears on the horizon, and forces the Dragon King to shield his eyes. A moment later, when he blinks his vision clear, where once the Red Keep stood, there is now nothing but an ever-expanding maw of green flame. _No!_

Wildfire sprints down the streets leading to the keep, and a tidal wave of emerald fire falls upon the area known as Flea Bottom, flattening thousands of buildings instantly, and doubtlessly leaving no survivors. A second later, the concussive boom of the explosion reaches them, and Daemon desperately holds on as the force of the shockwave sends the dragons pinwheeling through the skies, his children caterwauling in fear as the air itself turns against them. At last, Drogon rights himself, and in a panic, the king looks around until he finally feels like he can breathe again at the flash of silver against Rhaegal’s green scales. 

_Jon’s safe,_ he repeats to himself half a dozen times before he finally manages to swallow his horror. Looking back at the city, Daemon’s heart shatters as he sees a sea of wildfire raging over half of King’s Landing. Aegon’s High Hill sticks out of the conflagration, licked at only by a few dying tongues of normal flame, as the initial explosion has left absolutely nothing left to burn.

The Red Keep is completely gone. There isn’t so much as a battlement or tower to even suggest there was an entire complex there seconds earlier. The sky, once clear, is now blacked out by smoke, and already, ash falls, and the scent of burning wood fills the air. As his ears finish ringing, Daemon can make out another sound, one that’s unbearably horrible. 

He hears the screams of the people of King’s Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry. I'm just not.


	3. Why Should I Take the Risk and Let Someone In?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was _supposed_ to be the Long Night, but I realized there were too many things that happened in the days before that needed dealing with, so that'll be next chapter, and the chapter following will be the aftermath. I have my own spin on that planned, don't worry.

The plume of smoke from the annihilation of King’s Landing stretches across the skies, moving southeasterly with the coastal winds, visible even from distant Dragonstone. Euron Greyjoy is dead, burned with his flagship on the waters of the Blackwater Bay. The Ironborn fleet that sailed under his command had met a similar fate, easily dispatched by the three dragons. The army meant to liberate King’s Landing had to form up into fire brigades, and the Unsullied formed the bulk of this force, while, of all things, the Dothraki, working in conjunction with what little remained of the Lannister armies, oversaw the evacuation of civilians beyond the city walls. 

This happened as Daemon and Jon used their dragons to try to battle the flames by stirring great winds to snuff them out with the force of their beating wings. Luckily for all, the regimented discipline of the Unsullied again proved unmatched, as they dampened the roofs and walls of buildings near the flames to keep the fire from spreading, while using the major streets as firebreaks. In the end, everything south of the Street of the Sisters and everything east of Visenya’s Hill was completely lost, including the whole of Flea Bottom.

Combining the number of refugees with the estimated population of the city as provided by the surviving leadership of the city watch, it is believed that four hundred and thirty thousand souls perished. There are impressively few wounded, less than ten thousand, as the firestorm was so rapid and absolute in its destruction that anyone who was caught in its path was almost certainly dead. 

Now, Daemon lays on his bed, staring out the open balcony at the trailing cloud of smoke from the ruins. The door behind him opens unannounced, which can only mean one person. Jon.

“You need to eat, love.” He says softly. “Please.” 

The king does not move, not even to look at him. “What went wrong?”

Jon sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand. “I don’t know. Dae, please, will you eat something?” He doesn’t even have it in him to object to the use of his childhood nickname. 

Finally, Daemon sits up, looking at him with heartbroken lilac eyes that brim with tears. “Dāez wanted to be a farmer, you know. He said to me once, when the wars were done, that he would go south to the fertile lands of the Reach and try to make his way as a farmer as he had before the slavers took him.” 

“Qhona dreamt that the Dothraki would build a new civilization here, one that didn’t require raping and pillaging. She thought they could build a new city, one where they bred steeds for all the world, the finest on the planet, where they could celebrate the Khal of Khals who rode the greatest of all mounts until the ghostgrass came at the end of time.”

“Daemon, love…” Jon helplessly trails, pulling him in close against his chest, kissing his hairline. “I’m _so_ sorry.” 

“Tyrion-” He chokes, overcome by his grief. “He made mistakes, he failed me, but I never doubted his loyalty. I never doubted that he wanted to break the wheel.” 

The Northman holds his king closer still, feeling tears threaten him as well, for the sheer tragedy of it all. _“Four hundred thirty thousand…”_ Daemon whispers, heartbroken and overwhelmed. “I was supposed to protect them from her, to liberate them, and I got them killed.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Jon immediately says. “We hadn’t done so much as point our weapons at the gates of the city. The dragons weren’t even over King’s Landing when the Red Keep exploded. The people know what happened, and they know who’s to blame. More importantly, they know who’s keeping them fed and sheltered, who will rebuild that city when the time comes.” 

“I failed them.” He numbly says. 

“Please, Dae,” He implores, “Please come eat.”

The Father of Dragons takes a deep shuddering breath, and wipes the tears from his eyes before sitting up and nodding. “I need to bathe and get dressed. Would you fetch Missandei for me?” 

“Of course.” Jon nods, walking from the room. It’s clear the Daemon is still far from alright, but agreeing to get out of bed for the first time in twenty-four hours is a start.

**+**

“He is heartbroken,” Olenna declares to her granddaughter as they sit on the balcony in the painted table room. “The boy has never seen so much death in his life, and never on so many innocents.” 

Elinor Tyrell looks at her sire, confused. “Is that not a good thing, that he mourns for his people?” She asks.

“Do you remember, when we were in King’s Landing, the golden rose you had stitched?”

“Of course, Nana. How could I forget the tongue lashing you gave me?” She dryly retorts. 

The older woman gives a wry chuckle. “Indeed I did, and do you know why? It was, after all, a lovely thing you’d made, and your embroidery skills have never been bested, not even by Margaery. I snarled at you because it was not _necessary,_ little love. All my life, I’ve been surrounded by golden roses, what use have I for another? Had you embroidered me a lily, a lilac, even some gentians, I’d have sung your praises happily, and carried it with me home to Highgarden.” 

“What you’re saying is…” She trails, understanding the lesson, “That even if it’s good that King Daemon mourns, it isn’t what’s necessary now?”

“Exactly, dear Elinor.” Olenna says. “You saw those drawings in the cave just as I did. The Others come for us all, and Daemon and his dragons are the only chance in all seven heavens and hells we have at survival. He can mourn when his throne and his life are _secure._ Gods know I plan to do plenty of my own mourning when that time finally comes.” 

“You don’t plan to leave me so soon, do you? The king may have changed the law to allow me to pass on our house’s name to my children, but that doesn’t mean I intend to be the only Tyrell left until I bear them forth. I’d like it that you met your great-grandchildren.” Elinor asks, resting her hand on her grandmother’s.

The Hand of the King shakes her head. “No, my dear, I’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon. I’ll deny it on pain of torture and death, but I’m starting to see the king’s vision for his new world, and I’d like it to be remembered that there were golden roses sewn in the first garden a dragon ever planted.” 

**+**

“A raven from Dragonstone, addressed directly to you, Sansa.” Samwell Tarly hands the unopened scroll to the Lady of Winterfell, whose face grows increasingly pale as she reads, an impressive feat indeed for one already so white. “What’s wrong? Is it Jon?” He asks, now concerned.

She shakes her head. “No, nothing of the sort. Jon is well. Extremely well, in fact. He now rides a dragon.” 

At that revelation, Sam feels a spike of dread go through him. He had hoped that Bran’s visions were false, that Jon wasn’t what the High Septon’s diary said that he was, but the proof was there. Jon, born Jaehaerys, _was_ the son of Rhaegar and the rightful king, and now he rode a dragon. This would require a very delicate discussion upon his return. 

“W-Well, what is it, then?”

“Cersei Lannister did what the Mad King intended to do and detonated wildfire in the Red Keep. Half of King’s Landing has been annihilated. More than four hundred thousand are dead.” Sansa says flatly. “The Keep is gone, Cersei is dead, as is Tyrion, who died in the explosion. Daemon Targaryen is king. They will ride for Winterfell soon to prepare for the coming of the dead.”

“They’re _all_ coming here?” 

She nods. “His small council will remain at Dragonstone to govern in his absence, but otherwise, yes, the armies, the dragons, all of it.” 

_This is bad,_ Sam thinks to himself, _This is so fucking bad._

**+**

Two days later, in the Great Square of Jaehaerys, which is flanked by a mixed guard of Dothraki, Unsullied, and surviving members of the city watch, Daemon addresses the gathered crowds of what remains of King’s Landing. He does so standing high over them on dragonback, while Olenna and Elinor stand tucked under Drogon’s right wing and Jon and Grey Worm under his left. The two women, for their parts, stare up in awe at the majesty of the one they call Balerion reborn, and the king can’t help but feel a little sense of smugness at it.

 _Even the Queen of Thorns is rendered silent by you, my son,_ He thinks, smiling down at them. 

Down below, Missandei steps onto a high pedestal, and addresses the assembled thousands. “You stand in the presence of His Grace, Daemon Stormborn of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Father of Dragons, the King of Meereen, the Khal of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Liberator of Westeros.” She declares, and, amazingly, the crowd erupts into cheers. Apparently, all it took to earn him the love of the people was feeding them, who knew?

“My good people of King’s Landing,” He cries out to the masses, “You have endured untellable horror for years. The many usurpers who followed my madman father have shown nothing but neglect for you, even despised you, as though their lives and their reigns are not built on the power of the people! That time is over!” 

Again, the crowd cheers, and Daemon smiles for a moment before turning somber. “I wish I could say I stand here to announce that all the danger is passed, and that we may begin the long process of healing, but there is one more challenge we must endure, one more threat to us all. You’ve all heard the stories of the Others, those unnatural icy beasts beyond the Wall. It is my solemn duty, as your king, to tell you that they are more than stories.” 

“I have seen them, and they are not stories, they are a nightmare brought forth into reality. They care not for your birth, for what gods you pray to, nor what pleas you utter. The Others march for us all, man, woman, child, king, and commoner.” He declares, and the faces of the crowd become suspicious, though a good many become simply fearful. “All is not lost, however. Soon, I shall take my armies and dragons to the North to confront the Others. We have learned the secret to killing these creatures, and we _will_ destroy this final threat.” 

“To my right, many of you may recognize the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell. The young woman with her is her granddaughter, the Lady Elinor. Lady Olenna is my Hand, and in my absence, she, along with my small council, shall govern you. A portion of my Unsullied shall remain to protect the city and ensure that you are fed and sheltered as winter comes.” 

The king takes a deep breath, now comes the _really_ hard part. “I ask that any man ages fifteen to fifty who is able volunteer to join the greatest host Westeros has ever seen to march north and confront this existential threat to each and every one of us. Those who do will be fed, housed, and furbished with the weapons he needs to fight these creatures, and their families will receive a stipend for their service in their absence, and will be prioritized in the delivery of rations.”

“Even I may face death in this coming Great War,” Daemon proclaims, much to the surprise of the crowds, who have never seen a king so willing to admit his own mortality. “I will be there beside you, fighting for the lives of everyone in the world, this I swear to you. Should I fall, let it be known that I name Olenna Tyrell as Princess of Dragonstone and acting heir to the Iron Throne, and that from this day until the end of the Seven Kingdoms, House Tyrell shall be the cadet branch of the crown, and should House Targaryen be extinguished, the Iron Throne shall pass to them.”

That line, somehow, doesn’t stir as much controversy as expected. Perhaps the smallfolk had gotten used to the idea of a reigning queen fairly quickly after Cersei took power. That’s good, he supposes, as when he is old and heirless, it’s quite likely that Elinor Tyrell, should she live, will take up the throne upon his passing.

“What I ask of you is great, but it is necessary. What I ask of you is nothing short of your very lives, but I do not ask for them for my own vanity. I do not ask you to fight for king and country, or for any such lofty ideal. I ask you to fight because if you do not, you may yet die anyway! I ask you to fight for your wives and children, for your elderly and infirm, for all those who cannot! I ask you to fight for your very lives! Will you stand with me?!” 

For a moment, he feels a deep, dread-filled fear that the people will mock him, will think him every bit as mad as Aerys was. The silence stretches what feels like forever, until a young man in the front row of the crowd steps forward, dropping to his knee. 

“I will fight.” He declares, his eyes blazing. 

What starts as a trickle turns into a tidal wave, until the entire crowd has bent the knee before him, swearing to fight, and Drogon tilts his head into the air and lets out a great belt of flame. High overhead, Rhaegal and Viserion let out twin shrieks. All Daemon can focus on, however, is the unmitigated pride and affection in the way Jon is looking at him. 

Maybe, just maybe, they have a chance.

**+**

Ravens depart King’s Landing that very day, bound for every city and town from Sunspear to Lannisport, from Oldtown to the Eyrie, all delivering the news. Cersei is dead, Daemon is king, and the dead march for the Wall. Somehow, by the thousands, able-bodied men streamed to King’s Landing, and ships from every port showed up to ferry them north to White Harbor. It takes nearly three moons, but in the end, three hundred thousand men armed with dragonglass weapons have gathered in the largest host that Westeros has ever fielded.

Back on Dragonstone, as Ser Jaime Lannister prepares to depart to lead the remnants of his house’s forces, he is summoned to the chambers of the Princess of Dragonstone, finding her flanked by two Unsullied, and for a moment, he and Olenna Tyrell size each other up before he finally speaks.

“You asked for me, Your Grace?” The use of the royal title sounds like it tastes as bitter as vinegar in his mouth. 

For a moment, Princess Olenna smiles sweetly at him before gesturing to his sword that was finally returned to him only hours earlier. “That was Joffrey’s sword, wasn’t it? Not that he ever used it. What did he call it?”

“Widow’s Wail.” He answers.

She scoffs for a moment, shaking her head in disapproval. “He really was a cunt, wasn’t he?” Olenna pauses for a moment, before continuing. “I did unspeakable things to protect my family, or watched them being done on my orders. I never lost a night’s sleep over them, they were necessary, and whatever I imagined necessary for the safety of House Tyrell, I did. And now, here we stand, the Last Lion and the Queen of Thorns. How ironic that in your quest to annihilate us, you lost everything, and still, I am here, and still, I have a future.” 

“What’s your point? Rubbing in my failures? There are plenty of them, I assure you. Take your pick.” Jaime drolly intones.

“I am simply choosing your greatest failure, that is, protecting your son. I should hate to die like him, clawing at my neck, foam and bile spilling from my mouth, eyes blood red, skin purple. Must’ve been horrible for you, as a Kingsguard, as a father. It was horrible enough for me, a shocking scene.” She says, shaking her head. “Not at all what I intended. You see, I’d never seen the poison work before. I tell you this because before you go off to die at the hands of those already dead, I want you to know— it was me.”

For a moment, Jaime’s hand twitches towards his sword, before the fight leaves him of its own accord. He has nothing left, and nothing to gain by killing the spiteful woman in front of him. The fact is, she is right. Her house, her family, they have a future. He has none, and it is a mess of his own making. He turns from the room without a single word, striding for the beach to board his ship that will take him to the North. All Jaime can hope is that Olenna was right, that he will perish at the hands of whatever it is that’s coming.

**+**

The Great Host of the Living, as the bards have taken to calling it, has finally arrived at Winterfell.

Daemon and Jon lead this mighty procession, riding side-by-side as equals. When he lays his eyes upon Winterfell for the first time, the king suddenly understands the stories that Jon has spent each night telling him. It’s picturesque, standing noble and strong against the relentless white of the winter around it, and it just _looks_ like a home. He voices this feeling, and his Warden of the North chuckles.

“Aye,” He says, with pride brimming in his voice, “It’s a wonderful place. Lonely since we lost Father and Robb and Rickon, even Lady Stark, but Arya and Bran are there now with Sansa.” 

“I can’t wait to meet them.” Daemon replies. “I can only hope they feel the same.” 

Jon nods. “I hope so as well. I’ve written Sansa amply since this began, and told her of the love you have for your people. With any luck, my letters have made a good impression.” 

“Did you inform her regarding us?”

“No,” He says, “I felt that was a discussion best had in private.” 

The king nods, but doesn’t reply. Overhead, the dragons whirl about the keep, and on the threshold of Winterfell, under Stark banners, stands a tall, statuesque woman in dark clothes with a streak of bright red hair. Two dark haired figures, one standing and the other seated in a wheelchair, flank the Lady of Winterfell. Jon’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of his family. 

When they reach the gates, Daemon dismounts his silver, and walks over to lock eyes with Sansa Stark, praying for a warm reception, which would make for the first he’s received since he’s come to Westerosi shores. 

Sansa and Arya bow, and Bran tilts his head in acknowledgement of the king. When the lady of the castle speaks, it’s in a lovely voice, but she is rather distant in her politeness. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” She says. 

“I thank you, Lady Stark. It is a lovely keep.” Perhaps these Northern types require a bit of flattery, and it _is_ sincere on his part. 

“May I introduce my brother, Lord Brandon, and my sister, Lady Arya?” Sansa asks, gesturing to her siblings. 

Daemon nods to each of them. “A pleasure, to be sure.” He says. 

The two younger Starks both wear a similar emptiness in their eyes regardless of the polite expressions on their faces, but Daemon can see that it is forced on the part of Arya, that she brims with _something_ just beneath the surface. For Bran, however, it is a genuine emptiness, alien and unnatural in a way that disconcerts the Dragon King.

As soon as Jon approaches, the polite tension of the air breaks as Arya rushes over to wrap her arms around him tightly. They have a small exchange that the king doesn’t hear, and there’s another reunion as Bran looks up at his brother. The empty-eyed boy gives a bare ghost of a smile, and holds out his hand. “Jon,” He says, even-toned but still warm, “It’s good to see you.”

The older man clasps his hand with his brother’s, smiling at him. “I’m so glad you’re here, Bran.” 

Finally, Jon turns to Sansa, and immediately, she defrosts, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. The king holds back a snicker at the realization that Jon is shorter than his sister by no more than an inch or two, but it’s still definitely noticeable. 

“The Night King has breached the Wall not far from Eastwatch,” Bran says, suddenly breaking the reunion and sending ice into everyone’s veins, “He and his army march for Last Hearth, and Winterfell after that.” 

“How do you…?” Daemon asks, now confused. 

“Bran experiences… visions, Your Grace,” Sansa explains, “I do not fully understand it, but he does, and what he sees is the truth.” 

The king nods, swallowing. “How has he done this?” 

Bran levels those unnerving sable eyes directly on him. “Ancient magic. When I crossed back over the Wall, it allowed him to move south, but when he wounded your dragon, the blood fell onto the ancient land, and gave him the power to use the magic of the Children to shatter a portion of the Wall.” 

“I knew we never should’ve went.” He mutters to himself, “How long do we have?”

“At present pace, a week.” He says without inflection. 

Daemon takes a breath to steady himself, and speaks. “Well then, we will make preparations at once.” 

**+**

“Ser Jaime.” Brienne of Tarth greets the disgraced former Kingsguard. “It’s… it’s good to see you. When word of King’s Landing reached us, I had thought…”

Jaime shakes his head wryly. “I was the one who left to warn the king of Cersei’s plot. Great deal of good it did us, in the end.”

She smiles gently at him. “You did the right thing, and that’s what matters. What will become of you now?” 

“Assuming I survive this? I don’t know. I’ve been dismissed from the Kingsguard, and with Tyrion gone, I suppose I am Lord of Casterly Rock, though there have been… rumors that I may lose that title. Apparently House Payne has been the first to declare for King Daemon from the Westerlands.” He answers.

“You are a good man, Ser Jaime,” She replies. “His Grace will see that, I’m sure.” 

“As always, Lady Brienne, your boundless optimism is uplifting.” He replies, returning her gentle grin. That is, until he spots the wheelchair-bound figure in the archway of the gates of Winterfell. “Would you excuse me, there’s something I must address.” 

“Of course, Ser,” Brienne answers, and heads into the keep, doubtlessly headed for wherever Sansa was.

He approaches Bran cautiously, and the younger man looks at him with those unnerving black eyes, offering a ghost of a smile. “Hello, old friend,” He says, “I think we should take this discussion in the Godswood, if you wouldn’t mind pushing me.” 

“Very well.” Jaime replies, taking control of the handles and following his quiet directions until they are alone under the crimson leaves of the Weirwood. After a long, pregnant moment, Bran speaks again. 

“You’re sorry.” He says, making it a plain statement, as if he already knows.

The last of the lions nods. “More than you can imagine.” 

He gives a wry little smile. “I can imagine many things, Jaime, things you won’t even dream of for many years to come. I know that you are sorry.” 

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“While Sansa and Daemon would certainly bond over handing you to Drogon, I’m afraid your punishment must be to keep on living. We all have our parts to play in the wars to come.” Bran answers. “Besides, why would I attempt to extract justice for a crime for which I have already been rectified?”

“Already rectified… Bran, you will never walk again!” Jaime says. “There’s no rectifying that.” 

He shakes his head. “I have lost the ability to walk, but I learned the ability to _fly._ Had you not pushed me from that tower, your ashes would dance with Cersei’s on the coastal winds, and I would still be Brandon Stark, and none of us would survive what’s coming.” 

“You’re not Brandon Stark anymore?” He asks, now confused.

“In some ways, yes, in others, no. With time, I shall become more him than I ever was before, but for now, well, you see me as I am.” Bran cryptically replies. “I am awash in time, Ser Jaime, nearly drowning in it. Worry not, though, for I am learning to swim.” 

The golden-handed man looks at him as though he is mad, before finally sighing. “You’re damned confusing, you know that?”

“I make it a point of pride, Ser. Now, I believe we are needed for a war council. If you truly wish to repay me, do so by getting me there before it’s over.”

**+**

Daemon is the first person since Ramsay Bolton to enjoy the rooms of the Lord of Winterfell. Even after the keep was retaken, neither Jon nor Sansa availed themselves to their late father’s quarters, rather inhabiting sufficiently pleasant rooms of their own choosing. It’s quite clear that the rooms have been cleaned and the furs on the bed changed only recently. There’s not a bit of dust or soot on any of the surfaces, and the stones of the fireplace are freshly scrubbed. 

“They’re lovely.” The king says to Sansa, who has escorted him to the quarters. “These were your parents’ rooms?” 

She nods. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Jon told me quite a lot about them both. I should have liked to have met them.” He replies. “I wanted to say that I am terribly sorry for what you’ve endured, my lady.” 

“What has Jon told you of my experiences?” Sansa asks. 

Daemon sits, gesturing for her to do the same. “He’s told me only minor details, as he believes it’s your story to tell, and I never pushed the issue. As it is, House Bolton’s reputation preceded them. Word of the Bolton Bastard’s legendary cruelty reached even the Bay of Dragons. In truth, I had my eyes northward even then.” 

“Your Grace?” 

“There was word that Eddard Stark’s bastard lived at the Wall. I intended to tear the Boltons from Winterfell and install Jon as a legitimized Stark.” He says. “Clearly, you all beat me to it, though Jon is not Lord of Winterfell, nor is he a proper Stark.” 

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Do you wish to make him as such? You have named him Warden of the North.” 

“No, Lady Sansa, I do not. You are the eldest heir to Eddard Stark, Winterfell is yours by right. I’ve no intention of changing that, and the only reason I did before was that there was no reason to believe any of Ned Stark’s trueborn children lived.” He answers. “May I ask you a question?” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” Sansa replies, clearly relieved that she won’t be stripped of her post. 

“I know that Jon has kept up a correspondence with you during his time on Dragonstone? What has he told you of me, if you don’t mind sharing?” 

“He tells me that you are wise, and kind, with capable advisors and a powerful army. Jon says you have the love of the people in your heart, and that you will make for a great king, perhaps the greatest we’ve ever had.” 

“Has he told you that we are lovers?” Daemon bluntly asks. 

The Lady of Winterfell’s face goes slack for a moment, and she attempts to stutter out a response. “I- uhm, no, Your Grace, he most certainly has _not.”_

He chuckles lightly. “There’s no need for blushing like a maid, my lady, I’ve no shame of it. I understand the Northern sensibilities are a bit different, but I come with my own.” 

“Is that why he bent the knee?” She softly asks. “Is that why he handed us another southron ruler?” 

“If you are asking if I seduced my way to controlling the North, I assure you, Lady Sansa, I did not.” He tersely replies. 

Sansa looks at him with those Tully eyes that are a fraught mixture of emotions. “You might understand why it is that I would ask that.” 

“He bent the knee before we were lovers,” Daemon says, “After he was injured by the Night King north of the Wall. As it is, I would never have slept my way to controlling the Seven Kingdoms like a common whore.” 

“I ask forgiveness, Your Grace.” Sansa answers. “But I stand by my principles. The North has endured too much to bow to another southerner king.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying to reign in that infamous Targaryen temper. “How many men does the North have? Eight thousand? I have brought you a force nearly three times the size of the Night King’s, I have brought the greatest warriors Essos ever knew, and I have brought _three_ dragons. What chance do eight thousand men who have spent the last eight years plagued by one war after another have against the Army of the Dead?” 

Before she can respond, he continues. “And should we win, what comes after? More Northmen will die in the coming war, you can be sure of that. Men, women, children. How would you feed your people in winter when your stores are exhausted? How would you defend from reavers and pirates? How would you grow your own food come spring? Your starving people would flee south, Lady Stark. They would cross the Neck into the Riverlands and create a refugee crisis. _Your_ failures would become _my_ problem.” 

“The North remembers,” She retorts, “We remember what House Targaryen did to us.” 

“And the North forgets who gave them justice for the Lannisters. The North forgets who brought them an army when they needed it. The North’s memory is rather selective, it seems. I’m going to seek out a meal, Lady Stark. I’ll leave you with this word of advice— do not put your pride before your people’s lives, or you may find your time as the Lady of Winterfell to be perilously short. As you say, the North remembers, and they _will_ remember who it is that led them to starvation and ruin by leaving the union that allowed its people to grow.” 

He is gone, and Sansa is left alone, surrounded by the ghosts of those she has lost, and wondering just what it is that Father would do now.

**+**

“Braavos? You were in Braavos?” Jon asks, completely incredulous. “Amazing. You managed to get all the way across the Narrow Sea.” 

Arya nods, smiling proudly as she flourishes Needle. “I learned how to water dance there.” She explains. “Let’s see how that Valyrian steel holds against it, huh?” 

“One hit from Longclaw would shatter that blade.” He says. 

“Bold of you to assume you _could_ get a hit.” She taunts, waggling the blade at him.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Alright, you asked for it. Just don’t complain when you need to replace the blade.” 

Five minutes later, they are both panting, tired and worn, and somehow, Needle is intact despite taking its fair share of hits from Jon’s larger blade. The fight ended with a draw, which is the first such time for either of the two siblings in many moons. Leaning against one another, they walk away from the practice field and into the busy great hall of Winterfell, where a familiar shock of bright red hair and an even brighter grin awaits. 

“King Crow!” Tormund cries, running across the room to sweep Jon up in a crushing hug. “And who is this young maid?” He asks, eyeing Arya.

“Call me a maid again and I’ll have your cock severed from the rest of you before you can so much as twitch.” She evenly replies, and, much to her shock, the wildling man breaks into hysterical laughter. 

When he calms down, wiping tears from his eyes, he claps her on the shoulder. “Oh, there’s no mistaking you. The little sister! Anya, Alia, what the devil was it?” 

“Arya.” She says.

“That’s it! He said you were a spitfire!” 

“Arya,” Jon intercedes, “This is Tormund Giantsbane. He and I led the Free Folk south of the Wall. How the hell did you get here, anyway? The Wall fell near Eastwatch.” 

Tormund nods. “Aye, that frozen fucker did it so close we could see it, but he didn’t come for us. Luckily, he’s got a lot more idiots to move than we did, so we hauled our sorry arses south as fast as we could.” 

“Good, we need all the fighters we can get.” He replies. 

“Where’s that pretty boy of yours with the dragons?” He asks, looking around the room as though Daemon might just appear, while Arya looks at Jon as if he’s suddenly sprouted wings and become a dragon himself. 

_Pretty boy of yours?_ She mouths at him, while he just shakes his head and returns with _Later._

Jon clears his throat pointedly. _“His Grace_ is taking his supper at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you once he’s done.” 

While Tormund and the others from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea get settled into the preparations for the forthcoming battle, Arya decides that _‘later’_ means _‘now, since Tormund isn’t here any longer’._

“Pretty boy of yours?” She repeats, raising a brow. 

“He’s- I… _yeah.”_ Jon stutters out. 

Arya claps him on the shoulder. “Dragonrider, indeed. Speaking, you’re taking me out on that beast of yours tomorrow.” 

“I can barely take him out myself!” He complains as she walks away.

“Not my problem, big brother. Get on it.”

**+**

When Jon makes his way to the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell, he isn’t even surprised to find a great mass of white fur curled up on the bed pressed right up against Daemon, who is reading a book as he idly scratches behind Ghost’s ear. The king looks up and smiles softly at him, setting the book aside. 

“Your friend here found me and insisted I pay attention to him.” He says, before taking the direwolf’s massive head in his hands and peering into those burning red eyes. “And who am I to say no to such a handsome boy?” He croons, scratching underneath his chin.

Jon chuckles. “The bloody King of the Seven Kingdoms. You can say no to whoever you want, even this lump.” 

Daemon playfully scowls at him. “Don’t be cruel, he just wants some affection. I don’t think your siblings have been petting him at all.” 

“Sansa was never the cuddly type.” He remarks, sitting on the edge of the bed and joining the other man in stroking along Ghost’s fur. 

“So I’ve learned,” He replies dryly, “She and I had quite the discussion earlier.” 

The Northman sighs. “Gods above, what’d she do?”

“Refused to bend the knee and threatened to force the issue of Northern independence.” 

“Fucking Sansa.” Jon softly exclaims, leaning back to thump his head against one of the bedposts. “I’m sorry.” 

Daemon shrugs. “She’ll come to see. The lords of the North named _you_ king, not her, and they will follow your lead. Especially that darling little cousin of Jorah’s, I adore her.” 

“Lady Lyanna? Yeah, she’s a bloody riot.” He says. “She’s more serious at that age than _I_ was, and that’s saying something.” 

“I’d love to have seen a thirteen year old Jon Snow. Boyish little features, those messy black curls, all of it. I bet you were adorable.” 

Jon smiles, wrapping his arms around Daemon, pulling him close to his chest. “And what about you? What was Daemon Stormborn like at thirteen?” 

He makes a non-committal sound. “Quiet, meak. Viserys was the heir, I was the spare. After he had to sell our mother’s crown just for us to survive, he became cold, even cruel. He was already known as the Beggar King by then, and he often took his rage out on me. It’s easy to do to a boy when you’re a man.” 

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” 

“It made me who I am,” Daemon says, “In some ways, without Viserys, I wouldn’t be here now. As… _abhorrently_ awful as he was, I miss him sometimes.” 

He smiles at his silver-haired king. “Always so full of kindness, even for those who don’t deserve it.” 

“And especially for those who do.” He replies, pulling Jon in for a searing kiss, and gently dislodging Ghost from the bed.

**+**

On the sixth day, the last preparations are being made. Wintertown has many civilians, along with the camp followers that came with the armies Daemon brought north, and there’s also the tide of refugees fleeing from the march of the Army of the Dead, which had slaughtered thousands at Last Hearth. Sansa, to her credit, seems to have been cowed by Daemon’s frank analysis of the state of the North, and even provided a valuable suggestion, using the crypts of Winterfell as a shelter for those unable to fight. 

When Jon pointed out that placing their most vulnerable in the presence of hundreds of corpses while the Night King is able to raise the dead was begging for a slaughter, his sister looked like she was swallowing the poisoned waters of the distant River Ash as she explained her plan. They would exhume the bodies of the ancient Starks, even their father and brother, and burn the remains to prevent them from returning. They would put the ashes of Ned, Rickon, and Aunt Lyanna back in their graves, but leave only the memorials for the Starks of old.

It was a bitter draught to take, but unless they would have the very dead beneath their feet rise, it was necessary. Jon had to believe that his father would understand, that the Kings of Winter and their consorts and children going back countless millennia would understand. After all, the North remembers. Daemon, for his part, commended Sansa for her creative thinking, and promised his strongest Dothraki to do the work of disinterring the bones, and that they would be given rites worthy of great warriors by his bloodriders.

Now, Jon and Davos stand on the outer walls of Winterfell, overlooking the northern plain of the keep. Three separate trenches have been dug around the whole of the keep, all filled with spikes and pitch to light, making sure that not only was the field visible, but that as many of the wights as possible would burn on their way to the keep. The Dothraki and their horses will be stationed beyond the trenches, acting first as mounted archers and then using their newly improved _arakhs,_ which are now studded with dragonglass. 

The Unsullied, the Northmen, and those brought from the south, armed with dragonglass spears, swords, and daggers, will stand in the spaces between the trenches, with the Unsullied guarding the innermost ring outside of the walls of the keep in order to protect any retreat inside, commanded by Grey Worm, while Lords Umber and Velaryon will command the forces of the second ring, and Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime will hold inside of the walls of Winterfell.

Trebuchets and catapults are pressed tight to the walls, prepared to launch great explosive balls of pitch into the hordes of the dead. The crenelations and battlements are lined with thousands of sharp pieces of dragonglass in the hopes that the wights won’t be able to climb up the walls if their handholds are loaded with a substance that is lethal on contact. 

The final and most key aspect is that Daemon and Jon, mounted on dragonback, will conduct the aerial assault on the White Walkers whilst Viserion, being without a mount, will remain in the keep to defend the gate should it be overwhelmed, and also so as to keep him from being brought down by the Night King’s icy lances. 

“The Dothraki are finishing the cremation of your ancestors. Your father, aunt, and brother’s ashes are already reinterred.” Davos says. “His Grace is planning with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne. The dragons are freshly fed, and they’re setting up the cots in the crypts as we speak.” 

Jon nods. “Good. The collapsable bridges over the trenches?” 

“We’ve tested them all several times, they’re good to go.” 

“Thank you, Davos.” He says, looking at him. “For everything.” 

The old smuggler shakes his head. “Don’t say it like that, lad, don’t say it like goodbye. I’ve lost enough of my sons, I won’t be losing you, too.” 

He bites his lip, before nodding his head again. “You’re right. We’ll survive this, I swear it.” 

“And when it’s over, we’re getting properly drunk. I want to try that horse juice the Dothraki have, or whatever it is.” 

“It’s liable to kill a weak man, I warn you.”

“After staring death itself in the icy blue eyes, there won’t be a drink in this entire world too strong for me.”

A familiar timid voice breaks from behind them both. “Jon,” Samwell Tarly says. “Bran and I need a word, if you’re available?” 

**+**

“I’m _what?!”_ Jon demands. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”

Bran looks at him with those impassive eyes of his. “No jokes, Jon. You are Jaehaerys Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen.”

“Stark,” He immediately spits, “Her name was Lyanna _Stark.”_

“Not after they married.” Sam says. “See for yourself.” 

He pulls out the ancient diary of some long-dead High Septon, intimately detailing the annulment of the marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, and the immediate follow-up marriage between Rhaegar and one Lyanna Stark. More so, Bran describes, in wretched, vivid detail, the moment of Jon’s birth and his mother’s pleas to Ned to protect her child. 

Jon is overwhelmed. The last twenty-three years, the entirety of the Baratheon dynasty, the War of the Five Kings that annihilated House Stark and countless others, all of it is nothing but a fucking farce. Robert Baratheon burned a continent for a vile lie, because he simply couldn’t accept that Lyanna could ever love anyone else but him. Brandon and Rickard Stark died screaming in King’s Landing for nothing. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms was burned to the ground by a madwoman over _bullshit._

And Daemon. Daemon was exiled, abused, sold like chattel, made to suffer the horrors of war and loss for no reason. Had the Starks and Baratheons held their swords for two fucking minutes, what would have happened? Would the man they called the Last Dragon now sit on the Iron Throne? Would he and Daemon have grown up together, as close as brothers? 

Then there’s that little matter. Daemon is his _bloody uncle._ Jon doesn’t even know how to begin processing that fact, but he supposes that he isn’t retching onto the floor at the realization that his own blood has been inside of him is already an indicator of which way that will fall once he finally stomachs the shock. 

“There it is, Jon. _You_ are the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.” Sam says gently. 

“Stay your tongue, Samwell Tarly.” He rounds on him, leveling a furious gaze on his closest friend. “Daemon is king. He has won the throne, and there won’t be anyone taking it from him, least of all me.” 

The maester-in-training stutters, caught unprepared by the outburst. “B-But Jon, you are the son of the last Prince of Dragonstone. You sit ahead of Daemon in the succession, and the Iron Throne is yours by rights.”

“I said stay your fucking tongue. I never even wanted to be King in the North, forget the whole bloody continent. Daemon I of House Targaryen is your king, and that will be the end of this.” 

“A man who burns others alive without trial?” 

“What?”

Sam fortifies himself, while Bran watches impassively. “He turned my father and brother to ash without giving them a chance. He’ll destroy anyone who stands in his way, he’s proven that. How long before he destroys you for the threat you pose?” 

“For a man so smart, Sam,” Jon says, low and dangerous, “You’re being very stupid right now. You want to do this, we’ll do it. Remain here.” 

He storms from the room, and Sam turns to Bran, now extremely anxious. “He’s furious.”

“He’s processing.” He calmly replies.

“Oh, what if telling him was a mistake?” 

The last son of Eddard Stark shakes his head. “It wasn’t. He needed to know.” 

The two men do as they were told, waiting for Jon to return, until finally, a quarter hour later, he does, this time accompanied by none other than the Dragon King himself. 

“Show him.” Jon orders, pointing to the book. “Show him what you showed me.” 

Sam blanches. “Jon, I-” He goes silent at the fury painting his friend’s visage, and does as he is told, opening the old diary and pointing to the relevant passages. 

It only takes a few moments for Daemon to scan the text, and when he finishes, there are tears in his eyes. The king takes a steady breath and whispers to himself. “A lie. All of it, nothing but a lie.” 

“Now tell him.” 

Samwell’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out, and Bran finally speaks. “Jon isn’t my father’s bastard. I have seen his birth, and the woman who bore him was Lyanna Targaryen.”

Daemon’s violet eyes go wide with realization. “No…” 

“Jon was born Jaehaerys Targaryen, the last son of Rhaegar and his second wife.” The broken boy continues. “Aunt Lyanna was found dying in childbed by my father, who swore to her that he would protect her son from Robert Baratheon, because he would have killed him without thought.” 

“He’s the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” 

_“Sam!”_ Jon barks. “What in all Seven Hells did I say?!” 

The king chuckles mirthlessly. “Lord Tarly, your understanding of the laws of this land are lacking, especially for a man so educated.” 

“Jon is the son of the Prince of Dragonstone. When his father died, that made him the Prince of Dragonstone. When your father died, that made _him_ the king, babe or not.” Sam says, trembling with fear. 

“Except, Samwell,” Daemon says, “My father named a new heir. When Rhaegar died, he made Viserys Prince of Dragonstone. Mad as he was, and he was irredeemably mad, Aerys II was still king, and was within his rights to disinherit my brother’s children. Viserys was the crown prince, not Jon, and when my father died, _Viserys_ became the lawful king. He made me Prince of Dragonstone, and when he died, I became king.” 

“The realm will rally to Rhaegar’s son over a foreign conqueror. A man of the North, of unimpeachable honor.” 

At once, the dragon within flares to life, and the king stalks until he is inches from Sam’s face. With at least four inches of height on him, he looks down at the man. “I find myself in the unusual position of once again offering a Tarly mercy he does not deserve. Twice I gave your traitorous family the chance, and now, here I am again, giving you the same courtesy. Know this, Samwell Tarly, I will only offer it to you _once,_ and that is because you saved Jorah’s life. Still your traitorous tongue, or it, along with the rest of you, will have a chance to study a dragon up close and personal.” 

“You may force my silence, but if I can learn this truth, so can others. You will be found out.” He says. “Your Grace.” The honorific is quickly tacked on as those lilac eyes flare with the promise of fire and blood. 

“But not because of you.” He returns. “Come, Jon, we must have words.” 

With that, the last Targaryens storm out, and Sam finds that he can somehow breathe again.

**+**

The two men do not speak the entire way to the rooms they have shared since their arrival. As soon as the door is sealed behind them, however, Daemon rounds on Jon, and his furious countenance melts away into the most joyous smile that the hidden prince has ever seen on his face. Before he can even process, the taller man has pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, resting his head on top of Jon’s. After a moment, he can hear that Daemon has begun to softly sob. 

Gently pulling back, Jon looks up, cupping the king’s cheek. “Why do you cry?”

“I’m crying because I’m happy,” He blearily laughs, “For years, I’ve believed that I was the last Targaryen, that my stunted family tree would die when I did. I’ve feared what would become of my sons without others to ride them, what would become of my kingdoms. I fear that no longer. More so, I am just so happy to have a family once again.” 

“What… what about the threat I pose?” 

Daemon laughs, full-bellied and loud, and even as emotionally wrecked as he is, it’s a beautiful sound. “Do you mean to usurp me Jon?”

“Never,” He vows, “But Sam…”

“As I said, Samwell Tarly doesn’t seem to have a clue how the laws work. If I were a woman, there may have been an issue, though I doubt even that would’ve made a difference. I have taken the Iron Throne by force, and only force shall dislodge me from it. Unless you intend to rally the Seven Kingdoms against me, you are no threat. In fact…”

Jon’s brow furrows. “What is it? What scheme is it that’s playing in that head of yours?”

“When we win here, I will convene a Great Council to announce before the Seven Kingdoms the truth. That Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie, and that you are the son of Rhaegar. There, I will name you Prince of Dragonstone. I can father no more heirs, but you, my love, _you_ can. Lord Velaryon has daughters, including a girl of eight and ten, unmarried. With your consent, I would have you take her as a wife.” 

“Dae…”

“Jon, if you should outlive me, you will become king. If not, then your firstborn child, irrespective of sex, they will rule. Please, I _beg_ you, and I have never begged in all my life. Accept Dragonstone, marry the Velaryon girl, and keep our house alive.” He implores. 

The other man sighs, sitting on the bed in shock. “What of us? I am your nephew.” 

“And my parents were siblings, and had your half-sister lived, I’d like have been married to her.” Daemon says breezily. “Jon, it doesn’t bother me. Does it… does it bother you?” At that, he is suddenly much more vulnerable. 

“I just found out that my life, that the _entire history of the last twenty-three years,_ is a lie. That I’ve fallen in love with my bloody uncle just feels like the icing on the lemoncake.” He says, sounding somewhat numb. “It should bother me. Father, well, I suppose my uncle, always spoke with distaste for the Targaryen incest.” 

“But?”

Jon swallows, looking at him. “It doesn’t. Gods be good, I only want you more.” 

The smile that breaks across Daemon’s face puts the one from only minutes earlier to shame.

**+**

They are alone in the Great Hall. Brienne of Tarth, now Ser Brienne, stands in her armor before Jaime Lannister, who still holds the sword he just knighted her with. The air is full of tension, and hesitantly, she walks over to the Kingslayer. 

“I foolishly loved Renly.” She says softly. “I knew he wouldn’t, no, _couldn’t_ ever love me like that, but he was a good man. I believed in him, and I believed that he would be a good king. When he was murdered by Stannis’ red witch, I felt as though it was _my_ heart that had been ripped out. But for my oath to Catelyn Stark, I would have sought the nearest battle and fought until I died.” 

Jaime swallows thickly. “But?”

“But then some golden arsehole decided to turn my entire world on its head. He annoyed me to no end, insulted me, degraded me, and more than once, I considered running him through and just leaving him dead in a ditch somewhere on the side of the Riverroad.” Brienne says. 

“He sounds like a proper bastard.” He laughs. 

She shakes her head. “He had his good moments, too. He was clever, and he was brave. He even found he could be kind. He went so far as to give up his sword hand to save my virtue from men who wanted to rape me.”

“What happened next?”

“I realized something, but we parted ways.” 

Jaime steps closer. “Which was?”

“That I had found my heart again. That I had given it away just as soon as it was beating in my chest. That… that I loved him.” 

The man that took the heart of the one they mocked as Brienne the Beauty does not speak. He simply steps forward, and chastely claims her lips for his own. It’s soft, it’s sweet, and it feels like a beginning, even if it may yet be the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things:
> 
> I couldn't be bothered to draw out the Euron shit because frankly he was the most ridiculous character in the entire series, and that's a really high bar. I mean, out of nowhere, this guy who dresses like a washed-up Seattle grunge rocker shows up, usurps the Iron Islands, and somehow manages to catch Daenerys and her forces off-guard _twice,_ even downing a dragon, which, if memory serves, is said to be impossible unless you pierce the soft tissues of the eye or the upper pallet. 
> 
> Secondly, why they called Jon Aegon in the show is beyond me. Lyanna had to know that Rhaegar already had a son named Aegon, and secondly, for the type of man Jon is, Jaehaerys just works better, so D&D can bite my ass on that, not to mention literally everything else.
> 
> Thirdly, aren't you glad to see the smartest person in Westeros actually demonstrate some common sense regarding the whole "shelter the ones who can't fight in the crypts" thing? Fair warning, the Long Night chapter probably won't be as long as the others, for the fact that 90% of what happened that episode wasn't even dialogue, and I'm not going to wax poetic about people getting torn to shreds by zombies, that isn't the focus of this story.
> 
> Drop your honest thoughts.


	4. Balanced on the Brink of Insanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night comes. Please note the ratings change, and it ain't because of the battle.

_Stupidly pretty boy,_ Arya fondly thinks to herself, still panting from the exertion of their lovemaking. Pretty is the only word to describe Gendry at the moment, flush all the way down to his chest, taking great gasping gulps of air as he stares at her with wonder in his eyes. _I know he’s not a virgin, but he’s looking at me like he was until I just debauched him…_

She stands, unashamed of her own nudity, reaching for a rag nearby to wipe the sweat from herself, while he still stares at her slack-jawed. “See something you like?” She coyly asks, smirking over her shoulder. 

“Gods, yes.” He says, sounding every bit as wrecked as he looks. “More than you can imagine.”

“You’re not the only one,” She replies, slipping on her smallclothes before leaning down to kiss him gently, “You were marvelous.”

“Why’d we wait this long?” 

“You had spears and swords to make. Dead men to kill, remember?” 

He curses. “I’d almost forgotten those things were coming. It was nice, you know?” 

“I know. I wish I could forget. We’ve got less than a day left. The trenches are dug, the men armed and waiting, the crypts prepared to shelter the weak. Tomorrow night, it ends, one way or another.” Arya intones, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I just hope Jon and Daemon brought enough to stop the Night King.” 

Gendry’s dark eyes fill with steel. “They did. We will win tomorrow, and then it’ll be over, all of it. No more wars, no more monsters in the night, none of it. What my idiot father started will finally be over.” 

**+**

“Are you familiar with what they call the Lord’s Kiss?” Daemon sounds smug as he has Jon spread out over the furs of the bed of the Lord of Winterfell, naked and begging. 

Jon makes a frustrated sound at the loss of the king’s mouth, which had been doing some rather wonderful things seconds earlier. “Aye, but at last I checked, I’m lacking the parts for it.” He pants. 

The other man chuckles. “In Lys, they refer to it as the Madam’s Payment, and there is a means of performing the act on men, I assure you. Turn over.” He instructs. 

“Alright…” Jon trails, rolling onto his stomach, confused but certainly not unopposed. 

Daemon leans down, kissing at the small of his back and lightly nipping at the mounds of his ass before spreading them gently and pressing his tongue to the most intimate of places on his body. Jon curses loudly, and immediately one of his hands snaps behind him to weave his fingers into the short cap of the king’s snowy curls as he spears him on his tongue. His curses turn to babbles, which themselves melt into wanton moans as he discovers a world of pleasure that he’d never considered. Sure, he understood what one might call the basics of buggery, but Daemon was taught the language of love by one who had toured the pleasure houses of Lys. Even if he felt a distant jealousy towards this Daario Naharis, Jon also feels a great deal of gratitude towards him for the usefulness of his lessons. 

The king pulls back, replacing tongue with slicked fingers, gently seeking out that sweet spot within him that will make his nephew jackknife onto his hand and beg for more. That first union of theirs, wonderful as it had been, wasn’t without its pains. Since then, the two men have known each other in all the ways that lovers may know one another, and Daemon has become a master at taking Jon apart with just his hands. 

It’s eminently clear, however, that hands won’t be enough for him. It only takes a few moments before Jon starts making demanding noises, pushing back against the digits in his entrance and seeking greater pleasure than they alone can offer. “More, _please.”_ He demands, urgently wishing to be filled. 

“On your back, love,” Daemon murmurs, “Let me see that beautiful face.” 

He does as instructed, spreading his legs wide and presenting beautifully for his king. Daemon slicks his length with the cooking oil that Missandei so kindly procured for them from the kitchen upon their arrival at Winterfell, before locking eyes with Jon. 

“I love you.” He says. 

The younger man smiles gently at him. “And I you. Now take me.” 

The Father of Dragons pushes into him with a single stroke, gently but surely burying himself into the warm embrace of his lover. Like everything else with Jon, this feels like coming home in a way that no arrival anywhere in Westeros ever has. When he bottoms out, Daemon takes a moment to catch his breath, as that first push has stolen both of theirs. He leans down, taking Jon’s lips in a sweet kiss. The prince taps on his liege’s shoulder with impatient fingers, and the king begins gently rocking against him. 

Jon breaks the kiss to gasp as Daemon’s cock brushes that wonderful spot inside of him, reaching down to take himself in hand, working his prick over in time with the taller man’s thrusts.

 _“So fucking good, Jon…”_ Daemon whispers hotly into his ear, _“So good for me.”_

The king looks down to where his lover is stroking himself, and the sweet sight of the rosy head of his cock disappearing into his foreskin with each stroke makes his knees weak, makes him want to push harder to bring Jon undone before he himself is. Daemon redoubles, angling every thrust with pinpoint accuracy to assault the place he _knows_ will draw out the Northman’s climax.

Jon, for his part, has wrapped his legs around his uncle’s waist, while his blunt nails dig into the skin of Daemon’s nails, gripping so tightly that they somehow manage to leave angry red trails as he rakes them upwards. “Gods, _Dae!”_ He exclaims, feeling his orgasm rushing at him like a cavalry charge. 

“That’s it, my love, that’s right,” Daemon mutters, his white curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, “Come for me.” He orders. 

He is helpless but to obey the orders of his king. Jon’s legs constrict even tighter around him, while he furiously brings himself off with one hand, the other now drawing blood out of the shoulder it grips. He curses and says Daemon’s name like it’s a prayer, and he is gone, releasing with such force that his seed paints both of their stomachs, even landing on his cheeks. 

The sight of Jon’s climax combined with the feeling of his ass constricting with the force of it drives Daemon over the edge and headlong into oblivion, coming so hard that his legs give out from underneath him and he collapses atop his lover, all while releasing his load within him. There are a few moments of silence as they attempt to catch their breaths, before Jon gently shoves at the king’s shoulder.

“Off, you’re gonna crush me.” He chuckles. 

Daemon rolls over, covered in sweat and semen, and gives Jon a delirious grin. “You’re a miracle, you know that?” 

“Says the one who brought forth dragons and raised the greatest army the world’s ever seen.” 

“Hush, you,” He returns, rolling over to tuck him into his side, “There’s more than one kind of miracle.” 

Jon nods, looking up at those arresting eyes, likely the same eyes his father, Daemon’s brother shared. _Is this how Cersei and Jaime felt?_ He wonders to himself. _This overwhelming sense of rightness, even if the sensibilities of men said otherwise?_

He then remembers the lessons of Maester Luwin. The Targaryens were more than men, it seems, even decreed by the Faith to be as such. It wasn’t wrong for uncles and nieces and brothers and sisters to fuck, to wed, to bear children, it was _expected._ Even Daemon had said he’d likely have married Rhaenys had she not been murdered as a girl. He decides then that what he feels is nothing like what the Lannisters felt. 

It’s better. So much better. After all, the blood of the dragon runs hot, and they both have it in spades.

**+**

The day is spent arming the men, loading the non-combatants into the crypts, and overseeing all of the final preparations. There is a last war council held in the Great Hall, with all of the various commanders and their lieutenants in attendance. Arriving the day before, Theon Greyjoy has brought a small honor guard of the best fighters on the Iron Islands, while Yara remains in King’s Landing with the Iron Fleet, instructed to oversee the evacuation of as many as possible should they fail. 

With Bran’s dispassionate proclamation that the Night King will come for him specifically, Theon volunteers to have the honor guard protect Bran inside the Godswood. Joining him are Lyanna Mormont and the mighty warriors of her house, the young lady of Bear Island refusing not to command her men in battle. Rhokarra, now Daemon’s chief bloodrider since the death of Qhona in the wildfire explosion, affirms that she and her warriors are ready, as does Grey Worm for the Unsullied. 

As evening comes upon Winterfell, the lords and ladies gather for a meal, quite possibly their last. From his position of honor, the king stands and addresses them. “Friends, we stand on the brink of the greatest battle in more than eight thousand years. We stand here, with men from every territory in Westeros, from Spotswood to the Fist of the First Men, from the Arbor to Skagos, from Oldtown to White Harbor. We are three hundred thousand strong, thrice the size of the Night King’s force.” He proclaims, to which the assembly bangs on the tables and lets out cheers and cries of _‘Hear, hear’._

“Each and every one of us is armed with either Valyrian steel or dragonglass weapons. We have dug mighty trenches a hundred feet across, filled with pitch and spikes to slow the enemy. We are armored, trained, and capable.” Daemon continues. “But the enemy that comes for us does not tire and does not fear death, for they are already dead.”

 _“What is dead may never die!”_ An Ironborn cries out, to the cheers of his countrymen. 

He chuckles darkly. “Be that as it may, I assure you, these dead men shall die. There’s odds that many of us, perhaps even all of us, might also die. I am prepared for that, to lay down my life for the lives of my people. I ask that each of you be prepared for the same. There can be no cowardice on the field this evening, for cowardice may doom not just the North, not just Westeros, but the whole world. If we do not end it here, it will never end, and we shall all be naught but skeletons in service of the Night King.”

“I believe we will win tonight. I believe we will gather in this hall come dawn to toast our victories and mourn our dead. I believe that tomorrow morning, the sun will rise on a new world, on a _free_ world. Let us fight, my lords and ladies, for our freedom. Gods be good to us all.” The king concludes, raising his goblet in a toast. 

_“Gods be good to us all!”_ The crowd repeats. 

Daemon turns to Jon, who sits at his left, and shares with him a half smile. The secret prince returns it, understanding the meaning. _We’ll probably be dead by dawn,_ it says. _At least we managed to get one final good fucking in._

**+**

Davos stands on the ramparts overlooking the field of battle as the last rays of the sun fade in the western sky. The men are in place, the preparations are made. There’s nothing left to do but wait. Sansa and Arya stand by him, as does Samwell Tarly, who he understands has fallen out of his best friend’s good graces for some reason or other. Frankly, he doesn’t care, he never thought much of Sam.

In the distance, a lone figure appears on horseback. _Gods above, already?_ He thinks to himself. _We’ve only just gotten into position!_ However, the destrier and its rider are clearly not dead, if the way they are allowed to pass unmolested by the Dothraki at the front lines are any indication. The figure stops, speaking to one of the horse lords, and Davos realizes exactly who it is when the archers knock their arrows, and from nowhere, the dragonglass heads of the projectiles burst into flame all at once, forming a sea of torches that illuminates the leading edge of their host. 

He locks eyes with Melisandre of Asshai as she approaches on her snowy mare, and Davos gives the order to open the gate to let her in. He marches down to meet her in the courtyard, a mixture of fury and relief at seeing her churning in his stomach like an indigestible stone. When he reaches her, he finds her staring in absolute wonder at where Viserion stands in the massive yard, leering down at her with curious golden eyes. Davos clears his throat pointedly when he reaches her, and Melisandre turns around, appraising him with those burning red eyes.

“There’s no need to order a noose, Ser Davos,” She says wryly, “One way or another, I will be dead before dawn. Now, would you be so kind as to escort a lady to the top of the battlements?” 

The Onion Knight stares at her for a moment before finally swallowing the torrid storm of emotions and offering his arm to her. She smiles that unnerving smile of hers, too sweet and with just a little too sharp an edge, and the two of them make their way up to the crenelations.

Meanwhile, the king and the prince stand on a great outcropping of rock outside the walls of the keep, with Drogon and Rhaegal at their backs. “We’ll win this.” Jon says from their post overlooking the field. “We have to.”

“We are three times the size of his army, and have three dragons. The Night King will pay for every inch that he takes with blood.” Daemon promises. “He’ll soon learn what it means to pull a dragon’s tail.” 

In the distance, the trees of the Wolfwood begin to stir, and the war horns blow. It’s time. The two men mount their dragons, and take to the skies, watching as the Dothraki let loose a sea of flaming arrows at the approaching wave of White Walkers. _Gods,_ Daemon thinks to himself, _they move like a single beast._ Somehow, each time the Dothraki knock their arrows, they catch alight, and tidal waves of fire shriek across the inky black of the night, illuminating the great horde they call the Army of the Dead. Then, to the north, a wall of snow-filled clouds appears on the horizon. 

Jon utters the words of warning he once gave the lords of the North to himself. “He brings the storm…”

**+**

Inside the crypts, Missandei sits next to Sansa, both of the young women wearing armor forged for them ahead of the battle, each with a dragonglass knife at their sides. “Can’t believe Arya just ordered me to the crypts. Can’t believe I _obeyed_ her.” Sansa mutters. 

“She wants her sister safe.” Missandei says. “I certainly wish the king didn’t have to be up there.” 

“You really care for him.” It comes as a statement, not a question. 

The Naathi woman nods. “Of course I do. He isn’t just my king, he is my best friend. He has never treated me as anything but his equal. Did you know His Grace bought me?” 

_“Bought?”_ She asks, now shocked. “I fail to see how you could be best friends with a man who purchased you.” 

“My lady, he bought me, and the first thing he did was declare that I was free. He offered to return me to my homeland without cost or expectation upon myself. He did the same for every one of the Unsullied after he bought them.” She explains. 

Sansa nods, taking in the information. _Perhaps I misread him,_ she thinks. _Wouldn’t have been the first time I mistook friend for foe._ “And none of the Unsullied left?” 

“Not one. Their loyalty to King Daemon is absolute. When we came upon Yunkai, His Grace wondered if the slaves there would welcome him as they did in Astapor, because they lived much more comfortable lives. Nevertheless, when he freed them, they called him _Kazzo._ It is the Old Ghiscari word for father.” 

They lapse into a silence as the Lady of Winterfell processes what was said, but Missandei soon begins speaking again. “I know the king informed you of his… connection with Lord Snow. I thought it prudent to tell you that I overheard a discussion between him and Ser Davos.” 

“What was said?” 

“He said that you’ve endured horrors at the hands of the men you’ve been wed to, and that it was unlikely you’d ever wish to marry again. He then suggested that given the king’s, shall we say… lack of interest, that perhaps _you_ might wed the king, binding north and south and offering you a husband who will not force you into anything, nor have expectations of any wifely duties.” She says very quietly. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my lady, but His Grace would be an excellent husband for a woman such as yourself.”

“Has His Grace spoken of this with you?” Sansa asks. 

Missandei shakes her head. “I don’t believe Lord Snow has brought up the proposal with him, or if he has, His Grace hasn’t mentioned it to me.” 

“Thank you for that information, Missandei.” She says. “I shall need to think on it quite a bit.”

**+**

No matter how many arrows they fire into the horde, nor how many barrels of explosive pitch are lobbed by the trebuchets, the mass of the dead descends upon Winterfell. In the swirling storm that has suddenly descended, it’s nearly impossible to focus more than a few feet in front oneself. Not that that is of any particular concern to Grey Worm. The dead are constantly charging directly into his space, and with the skill of a man fighting for the love he has for a woman _and_ a king, he dispatches them coldly and moves on to the next one. 

The retreat _started_ orderly, but quickly turned into a rout as a tsunami of dead men charged. They laid themselves down over the great trenches, sacrificing hundreds of their numbers to the flame just to form flesh bridges over the pits, which had exploded into light with a flick of the wrist from the Red Priestess atop the walls of the keep. 

Now they are over the walls, and Grey Worm realizes what these strange western folk mean when they describe their concept of Hell. This place is _definitely_ Hell. Men and corpses alike fall to one another, while Viserion has moved from the courtyard to the Godswood, as there is not nearly enough room. Beyond the walls, the bulk of the force is still trapped between flaming trenches, and he feels a pang of pity for the souls out there. Precious few, if any, will survive the night. 

Setting aside that pity, he hefts his dragonglass spear and drives it through the skull of a half-decayed child that seeks to tear out his throat and whirls, burying it in the chest of another dead man. _They just keep coming,_ he thinks to himself. _They just keep fucking coming._

**+**

No matter how many times the two dragons rake fire over the sea of walking corpses, they keep crawling out of the accursed woods. Gods, killing a hundred thousand dead men is exhausting work. Daemon can feel the exhaustion of his children through the innate bond a dragonrider shares, and he’s quite certain Jon can as well.

He spares a moment to think of Aegon the Conqueror on the Field of Fire, eradicating House Gardner and humiliating House Lannister in a way their pride would never fully recover from even three hundred years later. This is greater even than that. The killing fields north of Winterfell will be marked with the bones of the fallen for millennia to come, an eternal record of what happened here. Long after the keep is nothing but rubble, long after the woods have retaken this place, long after men are no longer men and the names Stark and Targaryen are completely forgotten, whatever comes after will know that hundreds of thousands fell here in the greatest battle the world has ever seen and will ever see.

Daemon soars over the dead, untouched by their grasping claws and rusted weapons, as his beautiful sons rain light over them, banishing the night and its soldiers. Jon does the same on Rhaegal, resplendent in the gleaming silver armor that Gendry was so kind as to make for him before the Battle of King’s Landing. He feels a rush of possessive pride, and resolves that, should Gendry live, he’ll need to commission the bastard blacksmith a proper set of Targaryen armor for Jon. 

Another wave of the blizzard rolls through, and Daemon instinctually pulls upward, drawing Drogon high into the frigid night air, over the cloud tops and under the silvery light of the moon. Seconds after, Jon and Rhaegal appear, and the two dragons begin orbiting one another in the sky as their riders communicate. 

“We need to get back down there!” Jon calls. “He’s nearly here, I know it!”

Daemon shouts back. “Even if he is, we don’t know where he is! We can’t see him!” 

“I’ll find that frosted fuck if it’s the last thing I do!” 

With that, he and Rhaegal push back down into the torrid storms below them, and Daemon sighs, following suit. When they break the bottoms of the clouds, a small opening has appeared in the sea of the dead, and there, atop his wicked destrier, is the Night King and his trusted lieutenants. Immediately, Jon breaks for the grouping, intent to go in for the kill. 

The Night King, however, is quick to respond, and rapidly pulls out another one of his dreaded lances, and lobs it with intent at Rhaegal. Daemon’s emerald son, however, is quicker, and such a clever lad. The dragon dodges each of the projectiles, folding his wings in close and banking rapidly to avoid the onslaught. Just as he is within range of Rhaegal’s fire, the Night King feints, preparing to throw to the left, watching as Jon and his mount bank right in preparation. Timing it just right, he launches what appears to be the last lance.

In slow motion, Daemon watches with horror as the projectile meets its target. He _feels_ the ice in his own heart as the lance tears through Rhaegal’s armored scales, blasting its way through his interior and exploding out his back with a spray of viscera. Rhaegal lets out a lone scream of untellable agony, and plummets to the earth, Jon still desperately clinging to his back. 

_“NO!”_

**+**

_How did they break through?!_ Missandei thinks to herself as she hides behind the tomb of some ancient King of Winter, trembling as the wights stalk through the crypts, slaying anything they find. Luckily, the things don’t seem to be particularly clever, and don’t bother peering behind much unless a sound is made. She and Sansa were separated from one another in the ensuing chaos of the White Walkers making their way through the barricades. Missandei clings to her obsidian blade with all she has in her, praying to the Lord of Harmony for protection for the first time since she was taken from Naath so many years ago.

As the unholy screeches of the dead mix with the terrified and agonized cries of the women, children, and elderly being slaughtered in this place of tombs, she looks to her left and spots it. In order to preserve the edifices of the tombs when they emptied them, the remains were all removed from the back. There’s a hole, just large enough for a man to crawl through, and the inside of the stone sarcophagus is empty. 

Missandei rapidly slips off her overcoat, throwing it into the small opening. She crawls into the space, which is dank and reeks of ancient decay, but surprisingly warm for a stone tomb. She takes her cloak and tucks it against the opening, spreading the fabric as to keep anything from looking in. The king’s handmaid sits there, alone and terrified in the dark, but hopeful that she is safe. Outside of her hiding place, the screams continue.

**+**

Old Manderly is dead. Jorah holds the Valyrian steel blade of his house in his hands, having traded his dragonglass sword for Manderly’s after his head was taken from his shoulders by a group of wights. A horrid sound, more terrible than any that has yet echoed across these killing fields, breaks from above. Jorah’s eyes snap skywards, and when he watches as Rhaegal pinwheels downwards, trailing horrendous amounts of blood, his heart shatters into pieces. 

_Oh, Daemon…_ He thinks, knowing the agony that is consuming his _Khal_ at that moment. His son is dead, his lover is like to be. Jorah watches as Drogon hauls across the sky, bound for his fallen brother, and knows that Daemon, bless his fool head, will abandon the safety of the skies for Jon. He has failed his king too many times to count, and refuses to do so again. The old bear sprints across the field, desperately hoping he can reach the crash site before it’s too late. If Snow _is_ dead, he must get Daemon to safety, and if the man lives, there’s no doubt he’ll need help. 

Slashing his way through the mass of the dead, when Jorah reaches the king, he is surrounded on all sides, protected only by Drogon, who lets out great belching streams of fire at the creatures, but there are too many. He desperately shakes his body, attempting to remove them, but they continue to swamp him. 

Tucked under the great chest of the black dragon, Daemon and Jon both stand back-to-back, bearing their blades. Daemon’s is a two-and-a-half foot long short sword in the Tyroshi style, a gift from Daario before they departed for this godsforsaken land. He called it Chainbreaker. The glinting Valyrian steel is dulled by the mud-colored blood of the dead, and the two men are bloodied and bruised. Somewhere in the confusion, both of them lost their helms, and Jorah feels a rush of protective rage at the sight of Daemon’s white curls stained with blood by a cut on his head. 

Rushing in, the disgraced scion of Bear Island hacks and slashes at the dead, just as Drogon finally manages to take to the skies, shaking off the corpses that crawl over him and tear at his flesh. The dragon takes off, resuming his rain of fire over the field without his rider. 

“Daemon!” Jorah calls, “Jon!” 

Two men both look at him for a split second before they resume their killing, and he rushes to them, wedging in between them to form a triangle of death, offering another angle of protection from which the dead cannot come. Who knows how long they manage to keep in that position, it feels like hours, or perhaps only a few minutes, but the endless herd of corpses thins, and a path to the keep appears. 

Jon points towards it. “We have to go!” He bellows. 

_“Agreed!”_ Both Jorah and Daemon cry at the same time. 

When they take off running, Jorah easily notices the way that the other Northman limps in his sprinting. Clearly, the crash took a great deal out of him. They hack at the few corpses that snarl and shriek as they charge, but it’s curious, as though they suddenly have some other focus besides tearing the flesh of the living and making more of their own. 

Passing through the torn open gates of Winterfell, they watch as the dead flood in, bound for one place— the Godswood. Steeling their resolve, they make their way towards the same.

**+**

Chaos surrounds her as she sprints through the halls of Winterfell, trailed by the Hound and the Red Woman. Arya desperately slashes at everything that so much as twitches at her. Bran, she has to get to Bran. None of this matters if the Night King kills Bran. _What do we say to the God of Death?_ Melisandre challenged her in the maester’s chambers.

“Not today.” She huffs to herself. 

Just as they round a corner, they find the halls packed with the dead. The creatures, previously milling about, all turn towards their group, snarling and shrieking. She prepares herself to greet the God of Death, when the Hound steps forward, wielding his mighty broadsword. “Get to the boy,” He orders, “I’ll hold them off.”

Arya pauses, looking at him for what she knows is the last time. “Sandor… thank you.” 

The younger Clegane charges into the fray with a ferocious cry, and the two women backtrack, taking another route towards the Godswood. When they reach it, the place is in chaos. The Ironborn and the Bear Islanders have formed an impenetrable circle around Bran, who remains white-eyed as he is warged away. Drawing her dagger, Ayra begins hacking herself and the Red Witch a path towards her brother, all while repeating to herself in her head, over and over;

_Not today, not today, not today…_

**+**

_Stab them with the pointy end_ may prove to be the most useful advice Sansa has ever gotten. It’s certainly kept her alive thus far. She’s not even sure how she made it out of the slaughterhouse of the crypt and into the chaos of the courtyard, nor how she managed to make her way onto the crenelations of Winterfell, desperately stabbing any of the wights that approached her with rusted, blood-stained weapons and furious snarls. Her cloak was long ago torn away, leaving her in the battledress that she’s infinitely grateful she commissioned, considering it’s probably saved her more times than her dragonglass blade. 

She overlooks the chaos of the Godswood, watching as two figures, one in black and the other in red, carve their way towards the circle of fighters that is protecting Bran. Safe on her post, she grabs a crossbow that lay there, its user presumably long dead, and next to it, a quiver with dozens of dragonglass arrows. Knocking one of the projectiles, Sansa takes aim and begins to fire into the sea of the dead. 

**+**

_Sansa is firing from the towers. Queen Elinor is pushing King Maegor onto the Iron Throne, his throat exploding as the point of one of the thousand swords tears it open. Olenna Tyrell sits on the balconies of Dragonstone, weeping as she mourns her fallen offspring. Barristan Selmy is running Maelys Blackfyre through on the Stepstones, finally ending the War of the Ninepenny Kings. The Night King is coming._

Awash in time, nearly drowning in it, Bran snaps back to himself, feeling something he hasn’t felt in any meaningful measure in nearly a year. He feels terror, as powerful and heady as it was the day Jaime Lannister pushed him from the ruined tower and began this entire journey. He looks around, watching as the Ironborn and Bear Islanders slaughter the dead, but there are simply too many. Theon and Lyanna Mormont stand at either of his sides, each bearing a sword of dragonglass. 

One of the Ironborn falls, and a wight manages to make it through. Lyanna makes to slay the creature, but it is too fast for the young girl, and it hurls her against the heart tree, and when she lands, she does not stir. Theon strikes the thing down, and then, all at once, there is a great surge, overwhelming their guards, but the dead approach no further. Instead, they peel back, making a path. 

The Others appear, the Night King’s commanders with their long hair of spun snow and brilliant blue skin, looking for all the world like a collection of frozen old men. Impassively, Bran locks eyes with one of them, before looking to his last remaining protector. 

“You’re a good man, Theon.” He says, and the Ironborn son of Winterfell nods, giving him a watery smile. 

Theon charges, the lead of the detachment of Others, and blades of ice and dragonglass meet in a great ringing collision. He fights with the ferocity of all his ancestors, and finally, he drives the blade through the walker’s armor. The Other explodes in a shower of ice, and a large contingent of the wights inside the Godswood suddenly collapse. Just as soon as the dust has settled, three more are on Theon, and though he fights valiantly, it is too late.

The Prince of the Iron Islands is slain there, in the home of his choosing, defending his true family. From the part of his brain that watches the world, Bran notes that Sansa has run out of dragonglass arrows, and that Arya and Melisandra cannot hope to cut through the wall of dead men. Jon, Daemon, and Jorah are moments away, and overhead, Drogon and Viserion continue to rain fire down on the fields where more than half the Night King’s contingent and two-thirds of the living’s have fallen. 

The growing part of him that is Brandon Stark and not the Three Eyed Raven, however, mourns for the man who made so many mistakes and committed so many sins, but in the end, was still his family, and still defended his true home.

**+**

Daemon, Jon, and Jorah sneak around the edges of the Godswood, waiting for the Night King to appear. Sansa watches from her tower at the eerie silence that has descended over the place where fighting raged moments earlier. Arya frantically cuts at wights that pay her next to no mind, desperate to reach her brother. The Night King approaches. 

With an air of cool confidence, the horned creature that has led these monsters to Winterfell marches up to Bran, downright _smirking_ at him, triumphant and confident in his victory. Bran, for his part, for all the fear that is coursing through his body, looks at him with the same blank face he has worn since the Raven died and passed his powers on to him. 

“Hello, old friend.” He greets the creature that would be his doom. 

From behind, there’s a ferocious snarl, and the Night King whirls around, drawing his icy blade and stabbing forward. The crystal sword meets its target, tearing through the warrior’s armor like silk, and burying itself in their stomach to the hilt and exploding out their back. There, suspended in the air by the Night King’s sword, is Daemon, his eyes blazing with fury. The other hand restrains where he would bring Chainbreaker down onto him. Even as blood pours from his wounds and coughs its way out of his mouth, he pushes with all he has to drive the blade downwards. 

Jon lets out a cry of anguish, and Jorah rushes forward, heedless of the Others that approach them. He slashes blindly, trying to reach his king, and though he fells another one of the monsters, he too falls, the commander burying his spear into Jorah’s throat.

From her sniper’s nest, Sansa desperately looks around, spotting one final dragonglass arrow. She knocks it, and aims, praying to the Gods old and new that the arrow will aim true, and fires. The projectile embeds itself in the Night King’s shoulder, and he lets out a grunt, but continues to hold off Daemon. Arya manages to _climb_ onto the shoulders of one of the dead, and desperately hurls her Valyrian steel dagger. 

The blade sings as it travels through the air, pinwheeling end over end, and like her sister’s arrow, it is true to its target, landing in the bastard’s side. The Night King stumbles as ice begins to grow across his body, but still, he fucking lives. Lyanna Mormont, apparently only knocked unconscious by the blow of the wight, rushes forward, burying her sword in the demon of winter’s gut. He keens, high and agonized, like ice shattering after a great fall, and finally, his grip restraining Daemon’s sword arm slackens, and the dying king swings down, burying his Valyrian steel in the Night King’s head. 

Immediately, he turns to little more than shards of ice, and his commanders explode in their own clouds of frost. The hundreds of wights in the Godswood collapse, and cheers erupt from all across Winterfell. Daemon Targaryen lands in the snow under the weirwood tree, and his final earthly sight is the light of the moon filtering down between the crimson leaves.

High overhead, two dragons let out cries of mourning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that one _non-lethal_ wound was enough to do in the fuckin' Night King in the show? Neither can I. Next chapter we see the aftermath.


	5. Epilogue - Rule Over Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if I'd actually kill off Daemon. Who do you take me for? D&D? Fuck no, and fuck those guys. Enjoy, everyone.

_“Bring him back!”_ Jon bellows into Melisandre’s face.

The Red Woman holds up her hands. “I cannot, Jon Snow. My powers fade with every moment, for I have served my purpose. I am not long for this world, and soon, I will return to the Lord of Light.” 

“Bring him back or I swear I will rain dragonfire onto the Red God and his followers until they are forgotten to history. You brought me back, you can do it for him.” He seethes.

For a moment, Melisandre looks prepared to tell him that she simply cannot, but, as the sun teases at the eastern horizon, a look of understanding crosses her face, as though in the dusky rose of dawn, she has divined some final message from her god. 

“Bring him outside of the gates.” She instructs. 

Jon does as ordered, scooping up his lover’s body and following after the Red Witch. They are trailed after by a solemn procession. Sansa and Arya hold one another’s hands, while Lyanna Mormont pushes Bran, who, shockingly, has tears brimming in his eyes. When they reach the courtyard, they are spotted by none other than Grey Worm, deep in conversation with Brienne of Tarth, whose face shatters the second he sees Daemon in Jon’s arms. 

The joyous chatter of the men and women goes silent as they take in the sight of their fallen king, and the fighters follow after Jon, falling into the march outside of the gates. When they reach a clearing that isn’t filled with the corpses of the fallen, Melisandre gestures for him to lay Daemon out on the snow. “Remove his armor, and call out to the dragons.” 

He does so, and when Drogon and Viserion land, they both let out terrible shrieks of agony, spewing fire high into the air. The crowd flinches back from their display of mourning, but neither Jon nor Melisandre so much as blink. 

“Would you die for him, Jon Snow?” She asks. 

“Yes.” He immediately responds. “A thousand deaths.” 

She nods. “Good. I was once taught that when one has nothing else to give, death may pay for life. I will die here, Jon Snow. I will die for the Prince Who Was Promised. The question stands, though, shall you? For though the blood of the dragon flows through you, so does the blood of the wolf. Which shall prevail through the flames?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Then take your king in your arms, and say the word.” She orders, kneeling down and lifting Daemon’s limp legs onto her thighs. 

Jon gathers the broken Father of Dragons, taking in his face, beautiful and placid in death, for what might be the last time, and he takes his lips in a last kiss, damn whoever sees them. As the first rays of light from the sun breaks, he looks up to Drogon and Viserion, and he speaks. 

_“Dracarys.”_

They are bathed in fire. Jon feels the heat, but no pain. He feels his clothes turn to ash, even sees Melisandre’s shadow fade into nothingness. Daemon’s smallclothes burn off, and he watches as the wound on his love’s stomach seals itself shut. Death, paying for life. The king’s eyes fly open, and he gasps out, drawing fire into his cold lungs and warming himself, inside and out. He flails in Jon’s grasp, but the Prince of Dragonstone does not let him go. 

The gout of flame cuts out, and they are left there, naked, covered in blood, ash, and mud, kneeling in a puddle of boiling snow and dirt that is heated red hot, but blessedly, both of them are alive. They stand, facing the assembled masses, and link hands, two dragons uncaring for the opinions of sheep.

**+**

Theon Greyjoy. Jorah Mormont. Sandor Clegane. Samwell Tarly. Tormund Giantsbane. Wendel Manderly. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Rhokarra. Two hundred and fifty thousand of three hundred thousand who marched to defend their countrymen. Ninety percent of the North’s fighting men. Beyond them, half of Winterfell is burned, and nearly every room is filled with the corpses of fallen wights. 

It takes days just to clean out the keep, forget the battlefield. Daemon, for his part, is relegated to bedrest, dispatching ravens to his Lords Paramount announcing that the defense of the North was a success, at great cost, and that there would be a Great Council to be held in King’s Landing in four moons. Jon is nothing short of overbearing in his protectiveness, nevermind that there isn’t so much a scar left from the Night King’s blade. 

“I remember what it was like for me. It took me weeks to feel right again after I came back.” He says when Daemon voices this. 

The king will not budge. “And I say to you that I feel fine. I’ve only seen Missandei, Grey Worm, and your siblings for nearly a week. The men need to see their king and know that he’s alright.”

“Another couple of days, Dae, please.” Jon requests.

“Do I need to order you as your king?” He threatens. 

For a moment, he appears poised to attempt to defy the orders of his sovereign, but finally, he relents. Jon offers his arm to Daemon, though the look he gives him when he offers to help him dress himself is more terrifying than staring down Drogon’s wide open mouth while he roars in your face. 

The two men send word to the surviving nobles and commanders that there is to be a great feast that evening, presided over by the king. Meanwhile, they take a stroll on the battlements of the keep, before Jon speaks again. 

“I had a thought, about the future.” He says. 

Daemon raises a brow and smirks at him. “I wondered what that burning smell was.” 

Jon gently shoves him. “Oh, shut it, you. I’m serious. I think I have a good idea.” 

“And what is that?”

“That you marry Sansa.”

**+**

That night, dressed in his finest, Daemon stands at the center of the high table before the assembled diners and raises his goblet in a toast. “To the fallen. Their sacrifice will never be forgotten.” 

_“The fallen.”_ The assembly says solemnly. 

After a moment’s silence, the king resumes speaking. “I would also propose a toast to the heroes of Winterfell and the saviors of humanity. Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and Lyanna Mormont, without whom, I could not have struck the killing blow upon the Night King. My ladies, all the world is forever indebted to you.”

“Your Grace.” Lyanna Mormont says, standing up from her position at the main table and rounding about to face Daemon, falling to her knee and laying out her sword. “You fought for the North. You gave your _life_ and the life of one of your dragons for the North. We are forever indebted to you and to House Targaryen. I know that you have a great many titles, but I would ask that you accept one more, and with it this vow.”

“House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North whose name is _Targaryen.”_ She declares, arising to her feet and raising her sword above her head. _“The King in the North!”_ Lyanna bellows.

The noblemen of the North scramble to their feet, raising their swords, all of them yelling. _“The King in the North!”_ The chant carries on, and the Unsullied rhythmically bang their spears against the floor, while the Dothraki ululate and cry out, _“Qoy Qoyi!”_

Daemon looks around, and sees that Jon, Arya, and Davos also stand, their swords drawn, and even Sansa does, and she and Bran both have their goblets raised as they fiercely name him the King in the North. Missandei beams at him with pride in her eyes, and the warmth that has been so lacking since he came to these shores floods his heart. He smiles as wide as he can, desperately holding back tears of joy. 

When the chanting and cries have settled down, and the crowd has retaken their seats, he addresses them once more. “I accept this title with joy in my heart. There are matters to be attended to, however. Serious matters. Firstly, I call upon Gendry Waters.”

The young blacksmith shuffles to where Daemon sits, limping on a wounded leg. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“When we met, you informed me that you were the bastard son of Robert Baratheon, the man who murdered my family, stole our throne, and tried to have me killed in my bed as a babe. But Robert is dead, and so are his brothers. Do you know, Gendry, who the Lord of Storm’s End is?”

“Uh… no, Your Grace?” 

“Does anyone?” He asks, but the room is silent. “I think it should be _you.”_

Gendry’s eyes go wide. “I… it can’t be me. I’m a bastard.” 

“No, you are Lord Gendry Baratheon, lawful son of Robert Baratheon, and Lord of Storm’s End, because that is what I have made you.” Daemon declares.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Davos rises, raising his cup. “To Lord Gendry!” He declares, and the room follows suit. 

The king watches with some amusement as Gendry retakes his seat next to Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, who both clap him on the shoulder in congratulations, before continuing his address. “Then there is the matter of my resurrection, which many of you witnessed. Lord Jon Snow and I _both_ emerged unscathed from the flames, which I imagine confused a great many of you. What I will next tell you is painful to hear, but it is nothing but the truth, and we’ve the documentation to prove it.” 

He launches into a prolonged explanation of the relationship between Rhaegar and Lyanna, and the falsehoods of Robert’s Rebellion. Daemon doesn’t gloss over his own family’s crimes, and finally, he drops the bombshell, urging Jon to stand next to him. 

“So you see, Lord Snow survived dragonfire because he is not a Snow. Rather, he is the lawful and trueborn son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen, conceived not of rape, but of love, and protected by his uncle, the late Lord Eddard, for the first six and ten years of his life. Jon Snow is not even his name. His _true_ name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, and I name him Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.” 

The room is so silent that one could hear a pin drop. Jaime Lannister looks particularly agonized, likely at the realization that his honor and the lives of his family and children might have been spared had anyone taken the time to just stop and listen. At long last, the silence is broken by the Unsullied pounding their spears against the floor of the Great Hall. 

Grey Worm stands from his seat next to Missandei, and drops to his knee before Jon. _“We swear fealty to you, Jaehaerys Targaryen, our prince.”_ He says in Valyrian, while Missandei translates for the benefit of the rest of the room. 

Arya and Sansa both look at him with shock painting their faces, but they nod. “House Stark swears fealty to Daemon and Jaehaerys Targaryen, our king and our prince.” Sansa declares. It unleashes a tidal wave of vows of fealty. Lyanna, Davos, Jaime, Alys Karstark, Cley Cerwyn, and the other surviving nobles of the North, as well as countless knights and minor nobles from the southern kingdoms do the same. 

“Lastly, I have one more matter to discuss, perhaps the most important yet,” Daemon says, “The matter of my future marriage.” At that, Sansa’s chest tightens, as she realizes what is coming, and what her answer must be, for the good of House Stark, and for the good of the North. “Lady Sansa of House Stark, will you honor me by joining me in marriage as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?” He asks, going to his knee.

There’s a moment of silence as blue eyes lock with violet ones, before she gives a little smile. “I shall, Your Grace.”

**+**

The Great Council of 305 AC, held on the empty ruins of Aegon’s High Hill, is, to put it politely, a shitshow. Somehow, the foundations of the Red Keep have survived the explosion, spare those of Maegor’s Holdfast. Alone in the open air, the Iron Throne stands unscathed, the power of dragonfire unmatched even by the greatest explosion seen since the Doom of Valyria. 

It seems that spring has come with the defeat of the Night King, as it is warm and sunny when the council assembles, hundreds of nobles and their knights sitting in neat rows of foldout chairs, while Daemon finally seats himself on the chair his ancestor forged, letting out the softest of sobs when he finally wraps his hand around one of the hilts of the swords. 

To his right, though no longer the heir to the Iron Throne, the Hand of the King and still-Princess Olenna is seated, and Jon is there to his left. The first time that Olenna and Daemon met upon their return, the old woman marched over to him, and, to everyone’s surprise, threw her arms around him in a tight hug, which he gently returned. No words were exchanged, but the two shared a long look that seemed to say everything that needed to be said.

As soon as Jon is announced as Prince Jaehaerys, there’s a great murmuring before a part of the Dornish delegation suggests that Daemon relinquish his throne, but Jon draws Longclaw and threatens to remove the tongues of any lords who utter such treasons, making it perfectly clear that he will not ever accept the throne should Daemon be removed by force. 

There’s also the matter of House Tyrell’s new status as the crown’s primary cadet branch, and the question of the lawfulness of a woman upon the Iron Throne. To _that_ particular point, the king says that he has permanently changed the law of succession to that of absolute primogeniture, irrespective of sex, and that anyone wishing to contest such a point may take it up with his dragons. 

The most contentious point, however, is that of Daemon’s soon-to-be bride. A great many southern houses are offended by the clear display of favor towards the North, and voice strong objections to a Northern queen, particularly given what happened the last time a Targaryen and a Stark married one another. 

At that point, it is Sansa herself who speaks with acid in her voice to Lord Lydden of Deep Den, the one who has been the most vocal. “The North has endured hells you cannot imagine, Lord Lydden. The bonds between House Stark and House Targaryen are forged of fire and ice, in blood shed and blood taken. No longer will we be ignored and left to fend alone, and His Grace has made that commitment before all the houses of the North.”

By the end of it, the king has named his small council and managed to piss off a great number of nobles, though he’s secured the loyalty of the Lords Paramount, and expects that he won’t receive any trouble from the Westerlands since he’s released Jaime Lannister back to Casterly Rock, and Prince Quentyn Martell of Dorne reaffirms his loyalty, swearing to keep the rabble-rousers in line, by force if needed.

On the last day of the Great Council, none other than Queen Yara Greyjoy, flanked by all of her most senior captains, crashes the affair with a sudden and surprising declaration of fealty to the Iron Throne. It seems that the wars have not been kind to the Iron Islands either, and they have been forced to admit that if they cannot reave and take the iron price, they should all starve on the charming collection of cobblestones in the Sunset Sea they call home. 

In exchange for the abolition of the practice of taking saltwives and for limiting thralldom to a period of no more than five years, and the liberation of all the thralls who have been held longer than such, the Iron Islands gain a monthly stipend of food from the mainland, and pledges of assistance from Oldtown, who offer to dispatch maesters to the islands in order to teach them how to cultivate food on their barren rocks and harvest the rich mineral deposits located there. 

As a sweetener for losing an ancient part of their culture, Yara is granted the titles Salt Princess and Wardeness of the Sunset Sea, as well as affirming that the Iron Islands will be permitted to select their rulers by kingsmoot. With the Iron Islands now effectively a second Dorne, the mainlanders are even more offended, particularly some of the lords of the Riverlands, but Daemon assuages their wounded pride by promising to prioritize the recovery of the Riverlands along with the North.

The last bit of business is the announcement of Prince Jon’s betrothal to Lady Aelia Velaryon by her elder brother, Lord Maekon, who succeeded to Driftmark after the death of his father during the Long Night. This, somehow, is the one thing that none of the nobles take issue with. Perhaps they simply expected that the Targaryens would attempt to preserve their Valyrian ancestry as best as they could. 

All in all, no one leaves the Great Council fully pleased, which is the marker of successful diplomacy in the books of many, and at long last, the process of rebuilding can begin.

 **+** **  
** **Six Moons Later**

After a period of time, Jon tentatively approaches Viserion, who accepts him as a rider. It wasn’t an easy thing for the prince or the king to consider, but with only two dragons left, there also wasn’t much choice involved. They take time to bond, ranging on great flights across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities, and even taking a trip to see Meereen, where Jon has the chance to meet the one called Daario Naharis, and upon his return, he remarks to his uncle that it’s quite clear Daemon has a type.

The king commits to rebuilding the city of King’s Landing before he even dreams of laying the foundation stones of a new keep, and so the royal court relocates to Dragonstone for the long term. The relationship between His Grace and the Prince of Dragonstone is an unvoiced fact that everyone acknowledges. Some make their share of snide comments, and suddenly find themselves assigned to King’s Landing for a period to act as representatives of the crown to the common citizens. This “high honor” is little more than a post of listening to the rampant complaints of smallfolk, which never fails to humble the lords and ladies who sneer down at the little people.

Daemon and Jon take frequent walks along the beaches of their island, mounting their dragons to find isolated inlets and coves where they shed their clothes and swim naked in the warm waters of the Blackwater Bay, fucking on the sand and sharing solitary meals there. At one such outing, Daemon turns onto his stomach to face Jon as they both lay naked as their namedays on the sand, baking in the warm sun while their dragons dance in the skies overhead.

“Why can’t it be like this forever?” He asks sleepily.

“Because, love,” Jon answers from where he himself is dozing, “There’s no breaking the wheel if we’re spending all our days on a beach.” 

The king pouts. “Drat! You’re right. I guess we’ve no choice but to keep pressing on.” 

“Speaking of pressing on…”

“What?”

Jon sits up, looking at him seriously. “We’ll both need to marry our ladies to be soon.” 

Daemon nods. “I suppose we will. I wonder how well the lords of the realm will take being called back to the King’s Landing so soon, especially for a wedding they aren’t particularly looking forward to seeing.” 

“Do you really care?” He asks dryly. 

“Not in the least.” He replies, snickering. “Jon, your children will succeed me to the Iron Throne. How does that make you feel?”

“I feel that the witch who _‘cursed’_ you was full of it. You still don’t know for sure.”

He rolls his eyes. “Even if she was, I only intend to consummate the marriage with your sister once, for purely legal reasons. I’ll not force a woman who spent many moons being raped and tortured by a monster to endure frequent sex with a man she does not desire and who does not desire her for the sole purpose of _possibly_ conceiving an heir.” 

“Yet you’ll foist that duty upon me?” Jon says sarcastically. 

“Lady Aelia is a perfect specimen of Valyrian beauty. Don’t deny it, Jaehaerys Targaryen, you find her quite comely.” He retorts. 

The prince chuckles wryly. “Oh, aye, she’s a perfect beauty. Far more than a man who spent all his life thinking himself a bastard would ever expect to wed.” 

“But?”

“But I’m afraid I’ve got another _‘perfect specimen of Valyrian beauty’_ who holds my heart and desire.” He insists, coming over to lay wrap his arms around Daemon’s neck and kissing him with nothing but filthy intention. 

There isn’t much discussion to be had after that.

 **+** **  
** **A Year Later**

Impossible, absolutely impossible. 

_One time,_ Daemon thinks to himself, his face slack with shock, _we sleep together one time and she conceives by me._

Three moons after the joint royal wedding of King Daemon and Prince Jaehaerys to the ladies Sansa Stark and Aelia Velaryon, the maester of Dragonstone proclaims that Queen Sansa is pregnant with the heir to the throne. His examination is brief, but he says that he sees no sign of any problems, and he offers to send a raven back to King’s Landing for a midwife from the new part of the city, specifically the first of the new hospitals which were finished several moons back. 

When Daemon learned that Westeros had no such equivalent as a hospital, something that even most small cities in Essos possessed, he had been utterly horrified, and commanded that at least three be built to service King’s Landing alone, and had directed his Master of Coin, one Lady Anya Waynwood, to disburse funds to the major cities of the Seven Kingdoms in order to construct them across the country.

And now, he is quite glad that he did, for as he realizes that his child is growing within the belly of his wife, Daemon already feels fiercely protective, and wants nothing but the finest care for them both. When the maester is finished with them, he bids them many happy blessings, and leaves the king and queen alone. 

“I never… I thought I had been cursed.” He says, still in shock. _“Only death can pay for life…”_ The king whispers. 

Sansa looks at him with an inscrutable expression. She still dresses much the part of a Northern woman, favoring heavy, dark clothing, though the warmth of summer, which seems to now come once a year, has forced her to divest her furs and heavy cloaks. The crown on her head is a simple circlet, with the heads of a wolf and a dragon crossing one another at the front. 

“Is Your Grace not happy?” She asks carefully, using his honorific as she does when the two get into their rare disagreements, which are always quite spectacular when they occur. Sansa is a talented administrator who has truly helped him in his reign, but some of her opinions clash against the king’s, and she is not shy to voice them.

He shakes his head vehemently. “Sansa, no, of _course_ I’m happy, I just… I can’t believe it. A babe.” 

The king kneels down to where she sits, holding out his hand gently, seeking permission. Sansa reaches out, taking his hand and laying it on her still-exposed stomach, where he feels the hardness of a life just barely begun to develop in her womb. Daemon’s face is a picture of rapturous awe as he takes it in, and even the woman with an ironwood composition is helpless but to smile at the joy on his face. 

“I’ll tell Missandei if you tell Jon.” She offers. 

Despite the rocky start to their relationship, both Sansa and Daemon have come to genuinely care for one another, respecting each other’s skills as a leader and the loyalty to the people under their charge. Sansa, as queen, is present and a frequent speaker at the small council meetings, and she offers subtle solutions that often escape the much more action-oriented king. Rather than taking your dragons for a little flight over some upstart lord’s keep, why not incentivize his cooperation through a small grant of funds from the crown for his lands. 

If Daemon is a consummate leader, Sansa is a consummate politician. They balance one another out well. More than that, however, they are friends. They bond over a shared taste for lemons and shared trauma, confiding in each other in a way neither would’ve believed they ever could when they first met. 

Later, after Daemon has broken the news to Jon, along with new Master of Ships, one _Lord_ Davos of House Seaworth, the prince throws his arms around the taller man in a crushing embrace, laughing out loud. 

“The first bloody time!” He guffaws. “Here you are, swearing up and down you’re cursed to never father children, and you knock Sansa up the _one_ time you sleep with her!” 

“I’ve found the words of witches to be quite unreliable, Your Grace.” Davos smugly intones. 

The king waves his hand dismissively at the Onion Knight. “Yes, yes, laugh it up, both of you. I can’t be bothered by you, I’m far too happy.” He declares. “Jon, you do realize what this means though, don’t you?” 

“What’s that?” 

“Our children will be betrothed to one another.” He says. “My firstborn will marry the first child you have of the corresponding sex.”

“Better get to work on that one, lad.” Davos says, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “And I hate to say it, but I’m afraid you won’t make any progress on that front should you keep spending every night in His Grace’s bed.”

The men break into snickers at the teasing, before resolving to celebrate that night with a great deal of wine and ale.

 **+** **  
** **Four Years Later**

Built of Meereenese marble, granite from the Vale, and embellished with sandstone from Dorne, andesite from the Westerlands, and diorite from the Reach, where once the Red Keep stood, there is now the White Keep. It turns out that the remaining Unsullied, now converted into the Army of the Crown, with their seemingly infinite discipline, also make for excellent builders. The White Keep’s towers are higher than its predecessor’s, and the complex sprawls across Aegon’s High Hill. There are literally hundreds of trees planted in dozens of massive gardens, including an entire grove of lemon trees. 

High in the royal apartments, the delighted shrieks of children carry throughout the keep, as well as the bemused chuckles of their parents. “Visenya,” Daemon calls, laughing, “Stop trying to burn your brother with dragonfire.”

The Princess of Dragonstone looks at her sire, Tully blue eyes sparkling in a cherubic face framed by snow white curls. “But Father, Ned has risen against the crown!” 

“Taking your last pastry is not an act of treason, little love.” Sansa declares, sweeping up her second born into her arms, and pressing a kiss to his tiny auburn-covered head. “Eddard just likes strawberries.” 

_“Stah-berry!”_ The young prince cries out in agreement. 

The queen nods seriously. “Indeed, sweetling. Vis, why don’t you go and see what Rhaegar is doing?” 

“Yes, Mother!” Visenya cries out, rushing into the apartments given to Jon and Aelia, seeking out her cousin and future husband. 

The aforementioned couple appear from behind the corner, having been walking around in the afternoon sunshine, with Princess Aelia’s hand resting on the great rise of her stomach, soon to deliver another child to the world, which she is certain is another boy. As soon as they catch sight of one another, Jon and Daemon make for each other, while Aelia goes to the queen and begins to chatter. 

They walk along the crenellations of the White Keep, overlooking the great sprawl of King’s Landing, a clear demarcation between the old city and the new, though progress is being made on bringing running water to every building in the city. Daemon wraps his arm around Jon’s waist, drawing the shorter man in close. 

“I never even considered the possibility of finding love, you know.” He says. “I always figured I would only have the throne, if I could even take that.” 

Jon smiles at him. “You’d have found it, even if it weren’t with me.” 

“It wouldn’t have been worth it if it weren’t you.” He replies, leaning down to peck him on the lips. “None of this would have been worth it without you.” 

“Horseshit. You’ve changed the lives of millions, forever altered the destiny of the kingdoms.” 

“Speaking of, how is Arya enjoying ruling Winterfell?” He asks. 

The prince smirks and rolls his eyes. “Threatens every jumped-up little lordling that even looks at her funny.”

“They need it.” Daemon says. “So many children running the great houses since their parents were lost in the Long Night, _someone_ has to keep them in line.”

They keep walking around the rim of the White Keep, watching where now _five_ dragons dance over the Blackwater, hunting for fish and birds. The king pauses once again, leaning against the rails to adjust the plain silver circlet with its alternating gems of rubies and dragonglass that crowns his head. 

“I have… _so much more_ than I ever thought possible.”

Jon comes in next to him, taking his hand and looking out over the bay with him. “Aye. I reckon this is somewhat better than the Wall.”

“Gods, you are such an ass.”

“You love me, though.” 

“With everything I have.”

 **+** **  
** **Five Hundred Years Later, 811 AC**

“Thank you all for coming today for our tour of the White Keep! My name is Maester Sera Colelyn, I am the Director of Artifact Preservation for the museum portion of the castle! I understand that you guys have made quite the trip down from Winterfell to visit the capital.” 

“Indeed we have, Maester Colelyn.” The teacher, Mrs. Leeward answers. “This is Stark Secondary School’s eleventh year Advanced History class.” 

Colelyn smiles broadly at the group of sixteen and seventeen year olds. “Please, all of you, call me Sera.” She insists. “Let’s start with a bit of the basic background on the castle.”

The group takes off walking across the well-manicured grounds, snapping photos on their mobiles of the massive palace complex, while Maester Colelyn begins her explanation. “The White Keep was constructed from 307 to 309 under the direction of King Daemon I following the destruction of the Red Keep and half of King’s Landing by the Mad Lioness Cersei Lannister. Subsequent expansions of the complex were done under Aegon VII in 449 and Daenerys II in 701.”

They pause at a massive statue of a man astride a dragon, glorious in his armor and holding a short sword high above his head, while he looks into the middle distance, as if he’s seeing some grand future that none but him can visualize. “Here we see Daemon I astride his dragon, which he named Drogon, in honor of the first wife he took in Essos. King Daemon’s rule was marked by enormous reforms in the laws and traditions of the Seven Kingdoms. Can anyone name what is considered his most prominent achievement?” 

One of the student’s hands shoots up, and a dark-skinned girl speaks. “Reviving aspects of Old Valyrian government, such as the Senate and the right to vote on representatives.” 

“Very good. Daemon effectively ended the tradition of absolute monarchy in favor of a constitutional one, though the actual Constitution of Westeros wouldn’t be adopted until his grandson, Jaehaerys III came to power.” Maester Sera says. “Any other contributions of his?” 

“Equality under law!” Another student cries out. 

“Excellent!” She replies. “In 316, after putting down Sixth Blackfyre Rebellion, concurrent with an insurrection against Lady Paramount of the Reach Elinor Tyrell, King Daemon mandated equality under law for all persons irrespective of social status and sex. He also formed the beginnings of the modern court system, replacing the old system of judgement with the appointment of judges, usually septons or septas, to hear cases.”

A small boy, dour and shy, with raven hair and sable eyes, raises his hand. “What about his relationship with his nephew?” He asks.

Maester Sera nods. “Ah, _that._ Yes, King Daemon was engaged in a lifelong relationship with his nephew, Prince Jaehaerys, better known as Jon. This was well-documented in contemporary letters and journals, some of which survive to this day, though, of course, the relationship was never publicly acknowledged by either man, nor by their wives. Our understanding, however, suggests that Sansa Targaryen, Daemon’s consort who had been raised alongside Prince Jon as his supposed half-sister, was supportive of the pair, as was Princess Aelia, Jon’s wife.”

“When she succeeded her father to the throne in 363, Queen Visenya I directed the High Septa and the Most Devout to repeal the Faith’s dogma condemning homosexuality. Some wondered if this wouldn’t lead to men marrying men and women marrying women, and the issue nearly brought forth a schism between the Crown and the Faith, though, in the end, the Faith did as ordered. However, it wasn’t until 688, more than three hundred years later, that King Daemon V signed into law a Senate bill legalizing same-sex marriage.”

The tour is long, winding them through centuries of history under the rule of the Targaryens, rebellions, civil wars, the deposition of the monarchy in 722 and its subsequent restoration after a brief period known as the Westerosi Commonwealth in 728. At long last, however, the tour group reaches the throne room, and sets their eyes upon the unyielding seat they call the Iron Throne. 

“And here it is, ladies and gentlemen,” Maester Colelyn says proudly, gesturing to the seat. “The Iron Throne. It was here, just six years ago, that we crowned King Aegon XII. But for the brief period of the Baratheon-Lannister Dynasty, it has been the seat of Targaryen kings and queens for more than eight hundred years.” She pauses, allowing the group to take their pictures before walking up next to the seat. 

“So, any questions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to chss' story _No End and No Forgiveness_ for the idea about giving the Iron Islands status as a second Dorne. Also, there's a very vague Minecraft reference in here. Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments on this, and my thanks to whoever made that graphic of male Daenerys on Reddit. Drop your thoughts!


End file.
